


Harlequin Romance

by athena_crikey



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: AU, Gon is 18, Gon thinks its just a tea shop, Hisoka is 30, Hisoka runs a hit business, M/M, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, by which I mean he is the hit business, dom/sub themes, dubcon, for a while, hurt/twisted comfort, pain play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:01:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24329962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: “Um,” he says, and behind the desk the clerk looks up. His eyes, Gon sees in surprise, are a startling gold. They shine like candy-wrapper foil in the low light. “How much is the tea?”“Price varies by weight and selection,” replies the clerk in a soft tenor. He flicks his fingers towards the shelves; his nails are long and sharp like a mountain lion’s except that they’re painted pale blue, his fingers narrow and shapely. “The price is listed at the bottom of the label,” he intones as though he’s said it a thousand times. And yet somehow Gon can’t see many people stopping into this shop and even fewer interrupting the clerk to ask.Or: Hisoka runs a tea store as a front to a hit man business.
Relationships: Gon Freecs & Killua Zoldyck, Gon Freecs/Hisoka
Comments: 184
Kudos: 735





	1. Harlequin

**Author's Note:**

> I really just wanted a fic where Hisoka runs a tea store???

University is the first time Gon’s really been away from home. There were summer vacations, of course, to the ocean or the desert or the mountains in between, time spent hiking and swimming and fishing. But he’s never lived away from Aunt Mito before, never not come home to her cooking and the house smelling of dried lavender and potpourri. 

She taught him a lot – taught him almost everything he knows, growing up without parents in a thirsty Southern California village. Taught him not just his letters and numbers but how to find his way by the stars and track opossums by their footprints and judge people by their actions, not their appearances. 

He’s been in Los Angeles for two months now, making friends and struggling with schoolwork and thriving on the judo team – his ticket to UCLA. The immense urban sprawl of the city is still a total mystery to him, the snaking highways and distinct neighbourhoods – some bleeding into each other at the borders, others clearly delineated – are a source of awe. There had been no such thing as neighbourhoods back home, and only one streetlight in town. 

But now that fall is turning to winter, or to be more accurate that November is shifting to December, LA having no real seasons, Aunt Mito’s birthday is rolling around. He has only his scholarship and line of credit to live off of, so a big gift isn’t in the cards. But he wants to get something nice.

He asks Killua for advice, but Killua’s family are Russian Mafia – “the only gift I ever got her leaked blood,” he says, and Gon leaves it at that. Instead he wanders the streets near The Hill looking for inspiration, drifting down thoroughfares and alleyways, leaving the campus’ aura of wealth and prestige and descending into cheaper, poorer neighbourhoods. 

Gon doesn’t know where he is, but he isn’t lost. He knows exactly how to retrace his steps all the way to his residence, knows the twists and turns he’s taken to get here. Here is a narrow alleyway whose multi-storey walls block out the sunlight, lines strung across the space between the two buildings holding Chinese lanterns. The shops are small and dusty: a tarot card reader, a barber, a nail salon, a tea store. 

For want of any better ideas, Gon steps into the tea store; _Harlequin_ , the wooden sign above the door reads. 

Inside there’s a smell of must and green tea. The floorboards are old and narrow, the tall windows facing the alley letting in almost no light and the overhead track lighting weak. There are shelves on either side of the store holding aluminum jars with faded labels, and little white paper envelopes piled neatly beneath to hold the tea.

At the far end of the shop is the cashier’s counter, a simple table with an ancient metal register from the time before electric registers, and a scale. Seated behind the table is a young man who even in the darkness looks pale, his gelled-back red hair a shocking splash of colour against his ivory forehead. It’s not ginger orange but fiery scarlet, the colour of blood. He has face paint on like a child at a carnival, a star and a teardrop, as well as subtler eye make-up and dangling heart-shaped earrings. He’s reading the newspaper and doesn’t look up at Gon’s entrance. 

The floorboards creak underfoot; the lights hum overhead. It’s the only sound in the shop apart from the occasional rustle of the clerk’s paper. It seems like an ordinary old shop, kept open for whatever meagre revenue it can earn in this dry-as-dust location. But there’s a feeling to it. Like darkness. Like danger.

Gon’s never been able to describe his feelings to anyone else, not even to Killua, not even to Aunt Mito. He gets them about people and, sometimes, places. Like animals can sense changes in the weather, Gon can sense hidden truths. Danger, but also love. Hatred, but also joy. He can’t explain it. But he’s never wrong. 

“Um,” he says, and behind the desk the clerk looks up. His eyes, Gon sees in surprise, are a startling gold. They shine like candy-wrapper foil in the low light. “How much is the tea?”

“Price varies by weight and selection,” replies the clerk in a soft tenor. He flicks his fingers towards the shelves; his nails are long and sharp like a mountain lion’s except that they’re painted pale blue, his fingers narrow and shapely. “The price is listed at the bottom of the label,” he intones as though he’s said it a thousand times. And yet somehow Gon can’t see many people stopping into this shop and even fewer interrupting the clerk to ask. 

There’s something wrong about him. Something wild, almost feral, despite his painted nails and make-up. His eyes, when they catch Gon’s, aren’t inviting or even passive as salespeople’s usually are; they’re threatening. They’re the eyes of a creature seen late at night in the headlights, all banked fire ready to erupt. 

Gon’s never seen a man with eyes like them before. They send a shiver down his spine even as they draw him more deeply into the store. “I’m looking for a gift,” he says. “For someone special.”

The clerk’s eyes run up and down his body slowly, lasciviously, lips curve upwards. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”

Gon knows he’s good looking in the same way he knows his shadow follows him around – it’s part of him and he’s aware of it, but it doesn’t impact anything he does. He knows the girls on campus whisper about him when he walks by, can feel their eyes on his strong shoulders and sculpted ass. But their attention doesn’t mean anything to him. Which is why he’s surprised when his heart gives a little jolt when the clerk gives him that same assessing look. 

He shakes his head slowly. “Uh-uh. I mean, I’m at the university, but I’m not from here. How’d you know?”

“I don’t get many visitors. And most of them don’t stay long,” he says, confirming Gon’s earlier suspicion. “There are nicer shops on the main drag,” he adds, shrugging.

“There’s something special about this one,” replies Gon. The clerk’s eyebrow rises.

“Oh? How so?”

Gon looks around at the dusty shelves, their white paint chipping, at the cracked ceiling and the uneven floorboards. And then at the clerk himself, sitting with his legs crossed, fingers tapping on his knee. And underneath the bland surface of the shop and the puzzling nature of its clerk, that same feeling of danger. “It’s you, I think,” he says slowly, working through it in his mind. “You don’t belong here. Or you do, because you’ve made this place suit you. It’s all about you.”

“Hmm. Not a very flattering assessment.”

Gon colours. “Sorry – I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s a nice store!” he says, not entirely truthfully.

The clerk shrugs again. “It serves its purpose. Now: tea.” He stands, revealing a strong, tall frame. He’s wearing a loose crop-top in pale blue to match his nails with card suits emblazoned in pink on the chest, as well as a pair of loose pants in matching blue. The skin of his stomach is pale but toned, flat as a board. His shoes are heeled boots with a feminine toe. He moves out from behind the desk elegantly, his body swaying with a dancer’s grace. His steps on the ancient floorboards are almost silent. He walks over to stand beside Gon and points to a tin of tea on the middle of the bottom shelf. “I recommend this one. Affordable but richly flavoured. I drink it myself,” he adds.

Gon picks up the tin and opens the top; it’s a black tea and smells of bergamot, lavender and flour petals. Like Aunt Mito’s house. He checks the price and nods. “Okay.” There’s a metal scoop inside the tin and he shovels some of the tea into a paper container, folding down the top to close it, then returns the tin to the shelf. “I’ll get something for myself, too. To keep me awake while I’m studying.”

“Ah yes, a student,” hums the clerk. He reaches up and takes down a tin from the top shelf with ease. “Perhaps this? Green tea, peppermint and peppercorns. Enthusiastic and unexpected; like you.” He hands it to Gon, who sniffs it. He can’t help but notice as he does so that there are old bruises on the clerk’s knuckles, the yellow fading into his pale skin. 

The scent of the tea is sharp, pungent. It takes a moment to get used to, but he thinks he might like it. “I’ll try it,” he says, and scoops a smaller amount into one of the paper bags. 

“Anything else?” asks the clerk. “Perhaps a cup? Tea strainer?” his tone is almost goading, as though he’s joking with Gon. As though the idea of Gon here in his store buying tea from him is ridiculous. But that’s probably just his imagination playing tricks on him – though the clerk’s eyes are laughing. 

“Oh, a strainer!” There’s a small shelf of them near the till, tea balls and hand-held strainers in steel and mesh. Gon picks up the cheapest one. 

“They fall apart after a month,” cautions the clerk. “You should buy this one,” he suggests, pointing at another

Gon looks at the price and makes a face. “Sorry; it’s out of my price range.”

“Hmm. How about a deal?”

“A deal?”

“I’ll give you a discount on the strainer, if you come back again.”

Gon blinks. The clerk smiles. Gon doesn’t detect anything sly in his expression now, just sincerity. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you’re the only interesting person I’ve seen all week,” replies the clerk, sliding his hands over the lean curve of his hips as he rounds his desk, pressing the loose fabric of his pants against his body. There’s something in the way he moves that draws the eye; Gon finds himself watching every motion, every gesture. They’re delicate, but also purposeful. And, he thinks, the clerk is well aware he’s being watched. Is practically preening. 

“That doesn’t seem like a good reason,” says Gon uncertainly, looking down at the pricier strainer. 

“There is no better reason for doing something than because you want to,” replies the clerk. “Do you agree?”

Gon reaches out hesitantly and picks up the strainer. “Okay.” He crosses to the table and puts down the tea; the clerk takes up the packages individually and weighs them, doing the math on the prices in his head and ringing them into the register. “My name is Gon,” he says, as he pulls out his wallet.

“Hisoka,” replies the clerk, taking his bills and making change, long nails clacking against the drawers of the till. “It’s nice to meet you, Gon.”

He packs the purchases up in a plain plastic bag, holding it up for Gon. Their hands brush when he takes it, an electric feeling that makes Gon twitch. In his ten-year judo career he’s only twice fought opponents who really made him take note – and each time, he could feel their incredible potential running through them like a current. He looks up at Hisoka who is smiling winningly, and wonders who he really is. 

Just as he’s turning to leave the door opens and a man in a dark, expensive-looking suit comes in. “I’m looking for hibiscus tea,” he says, and Hisoka straightens, his smile fading. He looks the newcomer up and down, eyes narrow. 

“It’s in the back,” he says, suddenly now all business. “Bye-bye, Gon,” he adds, as he leads the man through a door in the back wall to a dark space beyond, his fingertips lingering for a moment on the door frame.

Then the door clicks closed and Gon is alone in the musty tea shop. He frowns curiously, and then leaves.


	2. Magician

Gon sends the tea home to Aunt Mito and receives a thrilled phone call in return enthusing over the flavour of the tea. He almost wishes he had tried a little – wonders if it would have made him feel like home – but he has the sharper, energetic peppermint blend. The first time he tries it it clears his head like the eucalyptus Aunt Mito used to steam for him when he was sick, leaving him feeling sharp and fresh and just a little like he’s scrubbed his skin too hard. 

He tells Killua about the little tea store but the latter isn’t much interested; Killua drinks exclusively black coffee and red bull, and will probably have a heart attack by age 25. He does perk up, though, when Gon describes his reaction to the clerk, Hisoka. 

“Real fighters can recognize threats just by looking at someone or touching them. I wouldn’t discount it, Gon.”

Gon makes a face. “I don’t think he was a _threat_. He didn’t do anything mean or nasty. Actually, he was really helpful! Aunt Mito loved her tea, and I like mine too.”

“And he invited you back for reasons entirely his own,” replies Killua. 

“I don’t mind that. He probably wants to be friends. He was real neat – all smooth and graceful.”

“Oh,” says Killua, significantly. 

Gon blinks. “‘Oh’ what?”

“Maybe it wasn’t your fighter’s instincts reacting. Maybe it was your heart,” he says, teasingly.

“My heart?”

Killua sighs. “Maybe you like him, Gon,” he explains. 

Gon considers this. He’s admired boys before, in school and on TV. And he knows about sex, or at least thinks he does – certainly, he knows how to make himself feel good. But he’s never wanted a boy before, not in his bed, touching him. The boys at home had been plain no-nonsense rural kids, wanting girlfriends and pick-up trucks. He had kissed a few of the more adventurous ones shyly behind the back of the school, but it hadn’t gone any further. 

Hisoka… he thinks of the clerk’s heavy-lidded eyes and long nails, of his lithe movements and the purr of his voice. Something tender curls low in his gut. He’s not sure if it’s Hisoka he’s interested in, or the sense of danger that he exudes. 

But yes, he’s definitely interested in one of them.

“Maybe,” he says, because he doesn’t feel ready to admit this, not even to Killua who has fast become his best friend on top of being his roommate. He knows that everyone else on campus shies away from the white-haired boy and his shadowed eyes, but Gon thinks he’s the best roommate he could ever have had.

“Well, be careful. There’s plenty of bastards out there who only want to rack up notches on their belts.”

Gon nods. “I’ll be careful,” he says. But he’s not sure if that’s true. Caution has never been his strongpoint.

  
***

School is hard, but having to study while maintaining his top place on the judo team is harder. It means late nights every night, means little opportunity for socialising outside the meal hall. Sometimes at night he and Killua talk before he falls asleep, but most nights as soon as he turns his light out he’s out too.

The tea helps. He sips it while he studies river systems and mapping software, the sharp flavourful kick keeping him awake through dry textbooks. 

He resolves to get more for Aunt Mito for Christmas, and more for himself too to keep him going through end-of-term exams. And so, one week before the end of the semester, he heads back into town. Retraces his footsteps through the urban sprawl until he finds the same little alleyway he had before, the same worn wooden sign reading _Harlequin._

Hisoka’s sitting behind the counter reading the paper when Gon comes in, as though he had never left. This time though he looks up as Gon enters, lips curving into a smile. “Gon,” he purrs, closing the paper and resting his elbow on the table, his fist propping up his cheek.

He’s wearing a loose yellow shirt tied into a crop-top, its sleeves puffy and card suits once again stamped on the chest. His nails today are canary yellow; his face-paint green and pink. His eyes are the same beaten-gold, shining with promise like a wedding band. “You came back.”

“Of course! We had a deal.” Gon walks over, looking slowly at the tins of tea as he approaches. They’re a little mysterious, their labels hardly legible anymore, each its own little enigma. “Where do they come from?” he asks. 

“All over the world. Some of the ingredients are local, but most come from farther afield. I have a wide network of contacts.”

It’s unexpected. For such a small, cheap shop Gon would have predicted that the tea was bought in bulk from a single domestic supplier, or maybe one in China or India. But to import them from all over for a store that must hardly break even seems… extravagant. Unnecessary. “You must really like tea!” he says, turning back to Hisoka.

The clerk smiles. “It’s the most harmless of my pleasures,” he says sweetly. 

Gon looks at him for a moment, but he doesn’t seem to be joking. “Oh. Well, I guess it’s good it’s the one you’re making your living from then,” he says.

Hisoka’s smile widens; the hair stands up on the back of Gon’s neck. He can feel this tiny, harmless shop suddenly growing more dangerous. “Isn’t it?” he agrees. He stands, chair clattering on the floorboards. His pants are tight around his hips today and looser over his legs, almost like harem pants. They show off his trim waist and the gentle curve of his hips. He comes around the table and leans back against it, hands resting on the edge of the surface and long legs stretching outwards. 

This close Gon can see that there’s a discolouration at the corner of his mouth; a healing bruise. “You fight, don’t you?” he asks. 

Hisoka blinks. “Fight?”

“Martial arts. I thought so when I was here before. Your energy, your grace – and your bruises.”

Hisoka raises a finger to press delicately against the bruise next to his mouth. “And for a moment, I thought you were flattering me,” he says. “Certainly I can take care of myself, but I belong to no school of martial art. I just happen to like it rough in the bedroom.”

_Liar_ , thinks Gon. The impression just pops into his mind. There’s no reason it couldn’t be true, but he doesn’t think that’s the source of Hisoka’s injuries. “If you say so,” he replies noncommittally.

Hisoka’s lips curl. “Perhaps you would like a demonstration?” he suggests, eyes suddenly narrowed suggestively. 

He’s not being serious. Gon’s almost certain of that. But for some reason his heart gives a little skip, his eyes widening. 

_This is desire_ , he thinks. The way he looks at Hisoka, the way he can’t stop watching his hands/mouth/hips, the way the purr of his voice sends shivers down his spine. He’s just not sure if it’s a desire for Hisoka himself, or to test his mettle against the clerk. His heart is speeding in his chest, his breath coming in faster. 

Behind him the door slams open and someone comes in; Gon turns to see a woman in tight jeans, a flannel shirt and ridiculously high heels stride in. “Hibiscus tea,” she says to Hisoka, who runs his eyes down her with clinical precision. 

“This way,” he murmurs, straightening. “Gon, if you would wait?”

“Sure.” He watches the clerk led the woman to the back room, then starts looking at the teas. He finds the one he bought last time for Aunt Mito just where it had been before and measures some out. He closes the lid and starts trying the other ones randomly: there’s chocolate and ginger, and elderflower and ginseng, and gun power. 

After a few minutes the woman comes out holding a small white packet of tea; she sashays across the floor and leaves. Hisoka appears from the back room, a smile on his lips. 

“What’s the hibiscus tea like?” asks Gon.

“Mmm,” purrs Hisoka, eyes laughing, “I don’t think you’d like it. Why not try this one instead?” he strides over and takes another down off the shelf that smells of lemon and linden. “Good for concentration.”

Gon nods. So far Hisoka’s recommendations have been great. “Okay, I’ll try it.” He scoops some into a paper bag and seals it up. Hisoka takes both bags from him, crossing to weigh them.

“You don’t seem like the typical university student,” he comments as he puts each delicately on the scale. It’s the old fashioned kind Gon’s doctor used to have, with a little suspended weight to move along a rod. Hisoka inches it along with one outstretched finger. 

“Huh? Oh, well, I got in on a sports scholarship. Judo. I’ve been doing it since I was 8. We had to drive an hour to the next town over for me to practice, but I really liked it, and I wanted to make all that work worthwhile. To really do well you need university support, and UCLA athletes have won more than 100 gold medals at the Olympics.”

“And thus, the martial arts,” says Hisoka quietly. “But surely you study too?”

Gon pulls a face. “Yeah, geography. I want to discover new things – map places no one else has been to! But it’s mostly memorization and learning to use new software and stuff and I’m not so good at that. I’m better at the outdoors stuff.”

“Ah, dreams,” says Hisoka wistfully, in the same way that adults say _ah, youth_. Like someone who’s passed by that and left it behind him. 

“You don’t have any dreams?”

Hisoka looks at him, eyes glimmering. “I have desires, certainly. They run ocean-deep in me, cold and hungry. And sooner or later, I find a way to sate them. But dreams… no.” He lifts the tea from the scale and puts it down on the desk. “Do you believe me?”

“If you say so, then yes.”

“You shouldn’t; I’m the most awful liar.” He produces a pack of playing cards from thin air with a gesture, shuffling them back and forth between his hands with the ease of a professional player, or a magician. 

A magician, thinks Gon. That fits with his clothes, with this strange shop and its dark secrets. And it fits his elegance and grace, the staid seduction with which he moves. He knows better than to ask Hisoka if he does tricks. This whole place is a trick, somehow. It’s up to him to find out how. 

If he wants to. 

“Next week I have finals,” says Gon. “And then I’m going home for Christmas. I’ll be back at the beginning of January. Will you be here?”

Hisoka licks his lips and smiles; Gon’s heart beats faster still. “I do hope so. The holiday season can be simply murder,” replies the clerk in a throbbing tone. His eyes are shining like a cat’s, all ease and expectation. “Do you want to see me again?”

Gon stares straight back at him. “I do,” he says. 

“Then come back to me, Gon.” He hands the bag containing the tea to Gon; this time his hand runs over Gon’s skin, his palm smooth. He turns Gon’s hand over, and with a wave lets his change fall into his palm, coins still warm from Hisoka’s grasp. 

And then he’s pulling away, a sedate smile on his lips. “See you next time,” he intones. 

“I will!”

Gon’s heart races all the way back to campus, Hisoka’s coins held tight in his fist.


	3. Joker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the dubcon begins...

Christmas is great. Killua comes home with him (“Fuck if I’m going home ever again; it took 18 years to break away from that hellscape,” is his answer when Gon asks if he wouldn’t rather see his own parents) and they have a blast on the huge dusty property. He gives Aunt Mito the tea for Christmas and she thanks him with a hug, then brews him a pot. It’s rich and calming and smells like home, just like he thought it would. The taste lingers on his tongue, complex but familiar. 

At night they sit together and watch old sappy movies, Aunt Mito knitting and Killua gorging himself on popcorn. Gon drinks the tea he brought home with him and lets his imagination wander as he sinks slowly into the ancient couch. Wonders what Hisoka is doing for Christmas, whether he’s alone in the tea shop reading his paper. If he knew his number Gon could text him, but it hadn’t occurred to him to ask. He’s still not sure what’s happening between them, if anything is. Certainly Hisoka’s tone and gestures have been suggestively intimate, but they’ve only met twice and for a brief time. It would be silly to imagine that anything’s grown between them.

And yet, he can’t stop thinking about the clerk. Especially when he drinks his tea.

  
***

Gon and Killua head back to Los Angeles on January 4th, the sky smoggy and the weather slightly cool. They unpack their stuff, their clothes all newly cleaned and folded courtesy of Aunt Mito, and then Killua goes out to buy his textbooks for the spring semester while Gon sits looking out the window. It’s a pretense, of course. He already knows exactly where he’s going this afternoon.

It takes him half an hour to walk to _Harlequin_ , the store undecorated for the holidays. The tattered Open sign is in the window, and Gon throws the door open and marches in like a homecoming hero. Hisoka, sitting in his chair with his feet up painting his nails, looks up. His smile is sharp, sly, like a scorpion’s tail. 

Gon’s heart speeds in his chest. “I’m back,” he says, crossing the small shop and coming to stand on the opposite side of the table from Hisoka. He leans his hip up against it, arm propped up beside Hisoka’s pretty slippers. His outfit is white today with pink suits. The loose bottom hem of his trousers is speckled a dirty brown. It could be dirt, certainly, but Gon’s seen enough bloody injuries to suspect it might have a human source. But that’s a question he can’t possibly ask. So: “Did you have a good Christmas?”

“Mmm, tolerable.” Hisoka dips the tiny brush into the bottle resting in his lap; it’s hot pink. “Work, work, work,” he adds, spreading his fingers to admire the nails before beginning on the second coat.

“That’s too bad. I guess a lot of people come in looking for a Christmas present.”

“Indeed. Of one sort or another. Some people can be very hard to buy for,” he purrs, glancing up at Gon as if letting him in on a secret. 

“Like you?” asks Gon, probing a little.

“Well,” replies Hisoka, “A good scotch is never unwelcome. But on the whole, I prefer to fulfil my own desires. Eminently more satisfying.” And, looking at Gon, he slips his tongue out and runs it over his lips, moistening them. Gon watches the dart of pink tongue and the shimmer of his lips with an intensity that astounds him. He can’t look away. 

“I know what you mean,” says Gon slowly, his skin hot even in the dusty shade of the shop. “When I fight I fight to win, and all that matters is my skill and strength. No one else can win that medal for me.”

“An apt comparison. There is something irreplaceably exquisite about holding someone’s future in your hands.” He tightens his fingers briefly, his nails suddenly like claws. “No gift could ever hope to replicate it.”

Gon thinks back to tournaments he’s won, to the thrill of victory, the sweet song in his heart as the ref calls the final fight. Hisoka’s right, no number of toys or video games from birthdays and Christmases past comes close to that joy. But… “You said you didn’t fight, Hisoka,” he says, puzzled. “Did you use to?”

Hisoka finishes layering on the nail polish and seals the bottle, setting it carefully down on the table. He looks up and smiles, unfolding his legs and taking them down off the table. He curls a finger at Gon, who comes slowly around the table to stand in front of him. “You’re not quite ready to find out my secrets,” he purrs. Then, before Gon can react, he reaches up, catches his wrist, and pulls him down.

An instant later their mouths are pressed together, Hisoka’s grip painfully tight on his wrist. His kiss isn’t at all like any of the hesitant ones Gon tried behind the school building back home, is hard and forceful and tastes like tannin and honey – strangely bittersweet. 

For a moment Gon squirms against the kiss, his instincts reacting warily to the perceived assault. Then he feels himself opening to it, meeting Hisoka’s ardour and pushing back clumsily, hungrily. This isn’t the soft floating feeling he’s always imagined a crush’s kiss to be; it’s bruising and raw, is both pleasure and pain. It’s so much more intense than anything he’s imagined – so much more _real_. Hisoka bites his lip hard enough to hurt, although not to draw blood; Gon gasps and breaks his grip on his wrist with a sharp shove of his palm, pulling away.

He’s hot and panting, a line of drool running down from the corner of his mouth. Hisoka smiles up at him, proud and pretentious. “Not your first kiss, I think,” he says.

Gon shakes his head, raising a hand to wipe away the saliva. “No.”

“But perhaps the most memorable,” he adds, eyes shining like a seam of fool’s gold. 

“You don’t play fair.”

“Oh?” Hisoka’s eyes open wide with pretended innocence. “In what way have I not been fair? I only invited you back once. You were the one who returned again.”

“You stole that kiss. We’ve never even been on a date.”

“Dates are for innocents and idiots, Gon. I told you before: I take what I want. If that’s not the game you want to play, all you have to do is walk out the door.”

Gon doesn’t even look at it. “You should at least make me some tea,” he insists, straightening. “To apologize.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

Gon smiles sharply. “Because you’re the one who invited me back in the first place. “

Hisoka stares up at him, considering. Finally he taps his lips with a long pink nail, the corner crooking upwards. “You _are_ confident, aren’t you?” He stands; even in flat slippers he’s still taller than Gon. “Very well. I’ll make you some tea.”

  
***

Without asking for his preference, Hisoka brews him a blend that smells like bergamot and vanilla, smooth silky flavours with a sweetness to them. He has a little kettle and tea pot as well as a set of two Japanese-style tea cups, and when the tea has steeped he pours it out without wasting a drop. He doesn’t offer milk or sugar, and Gon doesn’t ask.

Gon hops up and sits on the table while Hisoka lounges in his chair, newly-painted nails clacking on the porcelain cup. “I’ve never kissed anyone like that before,” Gon says, looking down at his amber-coloured tea. “Like I really meant it.”

“I don’t see any point in kissing someone if you _don’t_ mean it,” replies Hisoka. “I do what I want, and refuse the rest.”

Gon smiles a little over the lip of his cup, blowing on the hot tea and then sipping at it. “Will you tell me more about yourself?”

Hisoka glances at him, expression bored. “The past is entirely too dull to bring up.”

“Well, about yourself now, then. You do magic, don’t you? And this shop – are you the owner?”

Hisoka leans back in his chair, balancing it precariously on two legs. “Hmm. Well then: magic, mystery and mayhem. That’s how I would describe myself. Naturally, I excel at all of it,” he adds brightly, golden eyes shining beneath his heavy lids. Despite his narrow eyes he never looks tired – in fact, looks somehow even more awake than normal people, as if he’s paying scrupulous attention to everything, his eyes like a search beam. “As for this store – it’s mine in every way that matters.”

“Did you name the store because of your interest in magic?”

“Oh no. It was here before me. The name is what attracted me to it, though.” Hisoka’s smile is like a blade, cold and sharp. “I do so enjoy the suggestion that I can simply make things disappear.” He sets down his tea and picks up a nickel from the table. In a wave of his hand, it’s gone.

“But magicians always bring them back again,” replies Gon.

“Don’t you think it’s much more interesting to be left wondering where it is? What black void I’ve vanished it to?”

Gon takes a deep drink of his tea, now a more manageable temperature. “It’s in your left hand,” he answers, grinning. 

“You’re terribly literal,” replies Hisoka. He lifts the coin between the finger and thumb of his left hand, then flicks it in the air; it curves and drops directly into Gon’s tea.

“Hey!”

Hisoka smiles, lowering his chair and widening his knees and shoulders. “Now let me taste my tea on your tongue,” he purrs. 

Gon swallows thickly, anticipation heavy and cloying as molasses in his gut. Then, slowly, he puts down his tea and shuffles off the table, leaning in over Hisoka who seems to have no problem with Gon looming above him. Long, elegant hands run through his hair, sharp nails pulling against his scalp as Hisoka draws him down. His second kiss is less bruising than the first, his lips softer against Gon as he opens their mouths and slides his tongue into Gon’s, touching and tasting. 

“Mmm,” he hums ecstatically, exhaling through his nose against Gon’s face. 

The kiss is hot and passionate, the kind of kiss only the late-night movies have in them, Hisoka pressing upwards for dominance and Gon trying to keep up. His whole body feels overheated, his scalp tingling where Hisoka is touching it, his heart throbbing in his chest. He slips away feeling dizzy, aching. Hisoka is smiling like a satisfied cat, smug and sated. 

“Wow,” says Gon, whose heart is still racing. He puts a hand over it, can feel the strident beats through his jacket. His knees are shaking, sweat pricking at his hairline. “Hisoka…”

Hisoka crosses his legs and picks a piece of lint off his shoulder. “Hmm?” 

“Does this mean we’re going out? We don’t have to go on dates if you think they’re lame, or hold hands or stuff like that. But… kisses should mean something. That’s what I think.”

“Are you looking for a promise of monogamy?” inquires the magician, amused. “My interests are fickle, you know. What amuses me today may not tomorrow. However, right now there’s no one I’m interested in more than you. Is that enough?”

Gon looks at him, stretched out luxuriously in his cheap wooden chair, a juxtaposition of beauty and plainness. His clothes emphasize his strong shoulders and svelte waist, the long line of his legs and the firmness of his stomach. He’s beautiful like an ice storm is beautiful, dazzling and dangerous. Gon still doesn’t know what it is about Hisoka that telegraphs menace – it’s something in the way he holds himself like a trap ready to spring, in the sharpness that shines in his gold eyes. 

Whatever it is, though, Gon’s hungry for more.

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “So long as that means I can see you again.”

Hisoka’s smile is crooked. “I’ll be waiting,” he replies.


	4. Fool

When he gets back to campus later that afternoon, Gon tells Killua that he’s sort-of dating someone. 

Killua looks at him with a scrunched-up, puzzled expression. “‘Sort-of’?” he says, over the top of his chemistry book. Killua says he’s already got a great understanding of the human body and what makes it tick, and so is aiming to become a pathologist. (“Dead people don’t worry me,” he said, “it’s the living that make life hell,” when Gon asked about it further. After that, he stopped asking.)

“We-ell,” says Gon, flopping back onto his bed with his arms behind his head. “I don’t think he’s very good with romance. He doesn’t want to date me. But he’s okay with me being the most important person to him.”

“What does that mean?”

“I think it means he doesn’t want flowers and champagne and fancy restaurants. But he’s okay with kisses and spending time together.”

“‘You think’,” repeats Killua. “This guy doesn’t sound like he’s really committing here. You sure he’s not just playing with your heart?”

Gon thinks of Hisoka, of his scimitar smile and his amused burnished-gold eyes. Of the violence of his kiss and the tight press of his grip. “I think he’s unusual,” he says slowly. “But I don’t think that’s bad.”

“Look, Gon, you’re a good guy. You’re cute and strong and you’ve got a great personality. You could have anyone you want – you don’t have to settle for some ice queen who doesn’t want to splurge on you.”

Gon looks up; Killua is staring across at him, frowning. Gon’s never had a friend close enough to worry about him the way Killua does. Sometimes the white-haired boy treats Gon like he’s a younger brother, like he’s more innocent and naïve than he really is. But other times he shies up to Gon with uncertainty in his eyes, like he’s looking for shelter from an old but painful memory. It makes Gon’s heart hurt. “Thanks, Killua! But I like him. He makes me feel things I’ve never felt before.”

“That’s ‘cause you grew up practically on the moon. Everything here has been new to you. Trust me, there’s any number of guys who could make you feel good.”

“It’s not _good_. It’s… challenged,” says Gon. That doesn’t feel quite right, but it’s the best he can do. 

Killua crosses his arms, eyebrow twitching. “Dating isn’t like judo. You shouldn’t be looking for a strong opponent.”

“But I like that,” protests Gon. 

Killua sighs. “Well, can I at least meet him?”

“Sure! That’s a good idea. We can go next weekend.” He smiles. “You don’t have to worry about me, you know.”

“I’ve never had anyone to worry about before,” says Killua with a shrug. “Guess we’re both learning new things.”

  
***

They walk down together, the two of them and a bag of mandarin oranges. They eat the oranges one by one as they pass through the affluent areas surrounding the campus and into the poorer neighbourhoods where the building facades are dirty with grime and graffiti and small shops are crammed full of their wares, space at a premium.

“This is it!” Gon says, turning into the alley and pointing at the shop three doors down. Despite the sunny day, _Harlequin_ is dingy as ever, the tall narrow alleyway blocking out all sun from its front windows. As Gon steps in he smells dust and dryness, with just a hint of spice below. 

Hisoka is sitting in his chair reading the paper; Gon realises suddenly that he doesn’t even know which one it is the magician reads. He’s wearing deep red today with black and white highlights, his face pale as always with pink and green face paint, his shoes stiletto-heeled black leather ankle boots. The soft light filtering down from above is glinting off his gold earrings; they gleam secretively against the shadows. The paper rustles as he closes it, looking up. “Gon. And a friend?”

“This is Killua,” announces Gon. “My roommate. He’s pre-med; he’s gonna be a pathologist.” Gon hooks an arm around Killua’s shoulders and pulls him forward. The slighter boy is moving slowly, eyes watchful as they take in the shop and its clerk. 

“Hi,” he says.

Hisoka stands, one hand on his hip. His smile is faint, like the light of dawn just before daybreak. “Welcome,” he intones, his eyes predatory.

“Hisoka, have an orange!” Gon tosses one at him, and despite the fact that he couldn’t have seen it coming his arm snaps up and he catches it easily. He looks down at the object in his hand, as if surprised to have been suddenly assaulted by fruit. Gon grins. “They’re good!”

“Hmm. Thanks,” says Hisoka; he comes around to the front of the table and leans up against it, peeling the mandarin in long strips without looking at it. The orange peels fall to the uneven floorboards, instantly forgotten. He pulls a piece loose and raises it to his mouth, nails popping the thin skin so that droplets of juice run down over his fingers. He puts the slice in his mouth and then, eyes firmly on Gon, slowly licks the sticky juice from his fingers. 

Gon feels like a fire’s suddenly started under his skin, like he’s been buried in hot coals, his mouth suddenly desert-dry as he tries to swallow. Beside him Killua snorts and goes to investigate the tins of tea. 

Gon suddenly wants very much to kiss him. To feel Hisoka’s lips against his, to vie with the magician for supremacy, their bodies speaking for them. He’s never been great with words but Hisoka seems to communicate much more through gestures and expressions anyway, his movements full of grace and menace. But it seems rude to start kissing the magician in front of Killua when he brought Killua here specifically to meet him, not to be a third wheel. So he just stands there, watching hungrily.

“So you’re Hisoka,” Killua says to a tin of tea that smells of clover and cardamom. 

“Indeed,” purrs Hisoka. Some of the juice has run down his wrist; he lifts it to his mouth, tongue lapping against his pale skin. “And you live with Gon.”

“Random lottery. But it worked out; we get along great. He tells me everything,” he adds, looking up. Gon can tell he’s implying something, but isn’t sure what. Hisoka seems to get it though, his eyes laughing.

“How nice for you. Perhaps you wish he would share everything with you, too.” 

Killua glares. Gon doesn’t see how Hisoka’s statement is different from Killua’s, but apparently Killua does. His shoulders are tense, his body like a whip waiting to be cracked. “This is a dangerous neighbourhood; lots of gangs around.” He puts the tin back on the shelf, eyes firmly on Hisoka. “Lots of people looking for protection money.”

“I don’t pay for security, if that’s what you’re asking,” replies Hisoka with a knowing smile. “Somehow, no one has seemed very interested in a tiny tea shop and its innocent owner,” he drawls.

Lie, thinks Gon, and knows Killua is thinking it too. The wicked glint in Hisoka’s eyes makes it clear he knows they know, and he doesn’t care. 

“But then,” continues Hisoka, “I suppose you’ve never paid either. We both know how to look out for our own interests, don’t we Killua?”

Killua gives him a sharp look; Hisoka stares evenly back, popping another orange slice into his mouth. 

“I don’t think we have much in common,” replies Killua coldly. Gon looks at him curiously; he’s staring – no, glaring – across the room at Hisoka, his blue eyes icy. 

“Even more reason to be happy precious Gon brought us together, then,” purrs Hisoka. He glances at Gon, head lowered, looking up through his made-up lashes. “I’m sure we can find a common ground. I do so hate smothering a friendship before it’s even been born.”

“Look – I’ll make it clear,” says Killua, turning towards him, hands fisted at his side. “Hurt Gon, and I mash you to a pulp. Got it?”

Hisoka’s smile widens ecstatically. “Promise?” he asks, hungrily.

Killua shudders. He reaches out and grabs Gon’s arm. “We’re going,” he says. 

“What? But –”

“ _Now_ ,” says Killua, and pushes him out of the shop before he can protest further.

“Bye bye,” calls Hisoka behind them. His voice is part sweetness, part mockery.

  
***

“Killua, what the hell? We just got there! I didn’t even have the chance to talk to him!” Out on the street in the warm sunlight they’re arguing, Killua with his arms crossed and Gon gesturing vaguely.

“Good,” says Killua. “Fuckers like that don’t deserve talking to.”

“Killua!”

Killua leans back against the stucco wall, his shoulder covering up a graffiti tag in black spray paint. “Look, you know where I came from, the kind of life I led. Well it was full to the brim with assholes like that, sick freaks who get off on secrets and pain and twisting the screws even after you’ve begged for mercy.”

“You hardly met him!”

“Don’t need to. After 18 years growing up in my brother’s shadow, I can recognize his type at first glance. Whatever he’s selling in there isn’t tea – he’s obviously up to his neck in mob affairs, and that means sex or drugs or violence, Gon. He knew who I was without being told.”

“You don’t know that,” protests Gon. “I introduced you. And besides, there are rumours all over campus about you…”

“Somehow I don’t think he’s got his fingers on the pulse of UCLA’s student gossip. He’s dipping them somewhere much darker.” Killua sighs, turning his eyes to Gon pleadingly. “He’s handsome and exotic, I get that. And I know you haven’t had much exposure to either. But trust me: he is not the one to give it to you.” 

Gon tilts his head to the side. “Just because I come from a small town, doesn’t mean I haven’t seen horrible people, or that I don’t understand cruelty. Maybe Hisoka’s done some bad things – he’s dangerous, and you don’t get that way just by chance. But I want him, Killua. Like I’ve never wanted anything before. That doesn’t mean that I can’t see that parts of him aren’t right. It just means I look past that – just like I do with you.”

For an instant, just a sliver of a second, shock flashes in Killua’s face. Then he’s sighing. “I don’t want you to get in too deep with him. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Gon nods. “I know. I won’t. Really.”

Killua’s eyes are uncertain. “If he hurts you…”

Gon lays a hand on Killua’s shoulder. “He won’t. I won’t let him. I know how to take care of myself. You have to trust me.”

Killua puts his own hand on top of Gon’s. “Okay. But if you need help – ever – come to me. Got it?”

Gon smiles, his hand warm under Killua’s. “Yep!”


	5. Charlatan

After dinner that evening, Gon slips out and returns to _Harlequin_. He doesn’t tell Killua where he’s going, but he’s pretty sure the silver-haired boy knows. He gives Gon a dark look but doesn’t say anything, and while Gon feels bad initially the guilt has evaporated by the time he gets to the tea shop. 

When he arrives the ragged sign in the door is turned to Closed, but the lights are still on. Gon knocks on the window and the door at the back of the store opens. Hisoka appears, the white highlights on his clothes gleaming in the faint light pouring down from the bulbs above. He crosses the floor with supple steps, his hips swaying as he puts one stiletto-heeled boot in front of the other, a sly smile on his lips. He snaps the lock open and pulls the door inwards. 

“Well, well. Two visits in one day,” he says as Gon steps in. “Alone this time?” He makes a show of looking out into the street. 

“Yeah; just me.” He scratches his nose; Hisoka closes the door behind him. 

“And Killua?” 

“Oh, he’s back at campus. Killua worries a lot. He’s never had a real friend before me, you know.”

“One boy who’s never had a real friend, and another who’s never had a real kiss. What a pair you are.”

“You’re not mad?” Gon presses closer, enjoying the frisson that runs down his spine at the proximity. Hisoka’s looking down at him. Seen from below his face all curves: the roundness of his cheeks, the curve of his nose, the arch of his delighted eyes. 

“Would you apologize if I were?”

Gon shakes his head slowly. “I’d be sad, but I don’t think I can apologize for someone else. If you could, what would be the point of apologies?”

“What indeed?” murmurs Hisoka. He reaches down and runs a long-nailed finger under Gon’s jaw, tilting his chin upwards to consider him. Gon’s heart speeds in his chest, his sight sharpening with a sudden burst of adrenaline; Hisoka’s nail is pricking his skin of his throat, the pressure just this side of pain. “Should I kiss you?” he asks, tone hypothetical. 

“Nn!” the sound slips out of Gon involuntarily, his heartbeat ringing in his ears. 

“Ask nicely,” purrs the magician, curling his finger upwards; Gon strains, rising onto his toes. 

“Hisoka – please…”

“Hm, I like that.” Hisoka presses forward, his mouth hot against Gon’s. His tongue traces Gon’s lips then pushes inside, like a conqueror used to taking what he’s won. His fingers slip into Gon’s hair and then, as the kiss deepens, they tighten to fists, pulling at the roots. Gon gasps into the kiss, surprised; Hisoka pivots to shove him up against the door and plunder his mouth, ravenous as a starved animal. Gon’s head bangs against the glass, the single pane shuddering in the old door. The intensity of the kiss is electric, Gon’s heart leaping as if shocked. 

And then Hisoka is slowing, his movements growing heavy and deliberate. His fingers muss Gon’s broom-bristle hair, his teeth nipping at Gon’s lips and tongue. He exudes both power and precision, like a tiger cuffing its young – hard enough to hurt, but not to eviscerate. His knee is pressing up between Gon’s legs, the warm roundness of it rising gradually between his thighs. It reaches his groin, the pressure firm and delicious; Gon moans into the kiss and wriggles his hips, rubbing himself against Hisoka. He’s never felt like this, never been touched there by anyone else. Pleasure blossoms softly in his stomach, delicate and divine. 

Hisoka laughs and pulls back, leaving him panting and bereft. “Now, now. I don’t think you’re ready for a home run quite yet.” 

Back home it had been an unspoken but iron rule that girls shouldn’t give it away until at least the third date. But Gon’s not a girl, and he’s not dating Hisoka. He has no idea what the norm here is. “Hisoka,” he whines, off-balance and needy. 

Hisoka reaches out and cradles his face, long nails slipping into Gon’s hair just above his ear. “So handsome,” he purrs. “But rushing into pleasure is always a mistake. It’s much more satisfying to savour it.” His voice throbs, sensuous, seductive. Then he’s turning, hand slipping away, nails scratching lightly over Gon’s cheek. He struts across the room towards the back. “I have to close up the store. Be a good boy and run along home now. You can come again later.”

“Can I have your phone number?” Gon’s bitten the words out before he even knows he’s saying them, unphased by the dismissal. Hisoka pauses, looks back over his shoulder. His eyes flash gold in the dusky light.

“My number?”

“So I can text you. I wanted to all Christmas break, but I forgot to ask before I left.”

The magician shrugs, but produces a playing card and a pen from thin air and scribbles a line on it. He tosses the card at Gon; it flies straight and true and Gon bends to catch it before it hits the ground. Hisoka’s number is written over the Joker’s face. “Thanks!”

Hisoka raises a hand and waves, continuing back towards the back room. Gon smiles, pockets the card, and leaves.

  
***

Over the next two weeks he starts coming by more regularly. He comes to have a better sense of Hisoka’s moods – although the magician always appears amused and sardonic, he definitely has good and bad tempers. It’s the kisses that give them away; the more violent, the worse his mood. On his darker days he bites bruising marks into Gon’s neck, tempts him with sweet touches and then like a cat turns suddenly fickle, his fingers digging into Gon’s hair and wrists, his nails scraping bloody furrows down Gon’s arms.

He hides the scratches from Killua. 

Gon doesn’t really mind the pain; he has a high threshold and the strength to assert himself if needed. Hisoka, he thinks, is more than a little broken for all his effortless beauty and cool composure. Normal people don’t smile at pain the way he does, don’t greet cruelty with a tender embrace. But normal people don’t make Gon feel anything, don’t make his heart race or his skin burn the way Hisoka does. 

He comes to learn, too, what the magician likes. He enjoys small whimsical gifts – things like fruit, or cereal-box toys, or the eclectic products of the dollar store; Gon brings him spinning tops and rubber balls, a lemon-squeeze and a pen with four different colours of ink. He reciprocates with intimacy, deep kisses that leave Gon shaking and breathless, skillful hands slipping under his clothes and sending shivers of delight up Gon’s spine. He likes Gon to try his tea as well, and although he complains when Gon asks him to brew some he’s never yet refused, his eyes curved in pleasure as Gon enthuses over the taste. 

And, of course, he likes violence. He shows up to work with scuffed knuckles and bruises hidden with ivory-pale foundation, his lip split once so that their kisses tasted of old pennies on the tongue, another time a piece of plaster over a cut to the edge of his ear. Every time Gon has come to see him after an injury – the source of which he refuses to divulge – he’s been unusually ecstatic in their embraces, all breathy moans and roving hands. 

Gon remembers Killua’s words and wonders if Hisoka is perhaps some kind of gang enforcer, meting out punishment to wayward members in the late nights between ordering more tea and responding to Gon’s texts. But he can’t imagine Hisoka ever working for anyone else. The magician has only contempt for hierarchy. Whatever he’s doing certainly isn’t legitimate; Gon knows the types of injuries left by certified fights, and he knows the energy of pro fighters – Hisoka is definitely a maverick. Gon considers some sort of underground fight club; that, he can imagine Hisoka signing up for. 

But Hisoka doesn’t want to talk about it, and it’s none of his business, really. So he doesn’t ask.

  
***

It’s late in the afternoon on a lazy Saturday and Hisoka is trying to teach Gon a card trick. Gon has great reflexes but not amazing dexterity in his hands, and is struggling with the finer movements needed to palm the card. Hisoka’s seated on the register table, legs crossed at the knee, kicking his heel back and forth and blowing bubbles from chewing gum. The door opens behind them and Gon looks up, dropping all his cards onto the ground.

A young man with blond hair pulled back in a rat tail and a bulky jacket is standing in the doorway. “Hibiscus tea,” he rasps. Hisoka’s face hardens as he runs his eyes over the stranger. “This way,” he says, gesturing towards the back room. Rat Tail crosses the room and follows him through the door, Gon collecting his card off the floor and trying again.

They’re gone for a few minutes before the shouting starts. “ _Don’t give me that bullshit – I know you’ll do it!_ ” There’s the sound of something thumping once, twice. Hisoka’s reply, if any, isn’t audible.

Gon has rounded the table in a second, throwing open the door and darting in. Hisoka is standing on the far side of a long folding plastic-topped table, the kind used by school gyms and community centres, Rat Tail on the closer side with his back to Gon. A tin of tea lies on the ground, rolling slowly along a curve. 

Hisoka is smiling his least amused smile. “I think you should leave now,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. Gon feels the atmosphere darken, feels himself tensing. 

“Fuck you, fag,” spits Rat Tail. “You want me gone? Give me what I want.”

“Hey,” says Gon, sharply, outrage flooding him. It coats his insides as though with lighter fluid, ready to conflagrate. “Watch your mouth.”

Completely unaffected, Hisoka leans down and picks up the tin with one hand, setting it on the table. “Hibiscus tea. 200 an ounce. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“You know what I want!”

Hisoka strokes the lid of the tea canister. “I only sell to those who deserve it. My wares are a precious commodity, and I do so hate waste. There are entirely too many people out there who are all too eager to throw away precious things.”

“Your job is to sell, not to ask questions.”

Hisoka’s eyes flash like sun on a golden dagger. Illusive, ephemeral. Dangerous. “I would take care to stay out of my bad books,” he purrs, nails scraping over the tin with a soft sound like a blade gutting a fish. “You never know when I may decide to play judge.”

Rat Tail’s shoulders rise, his fists tensing. 

“Okay, time to go,” breaks in Gon, sensing violence in the air. Hisoka blinks at him, as if just noticing his presence. Gon puts a hand on Rat Tail’s shoulder and he shrugs it sharply off, turning. 

“I’ll remember this, you goddamn charlatan,” he snarls, and slams out of the back room. A moment later the front door slams. 

Gon sighs, untensing. For the first time he looks around; the room is small, the same width as the store and about four yards deep. There’s the table, an ancient wardrobe, a window, and a cot bed. The paint on the walls is peeling; cobwebs hang from the ceiling. 

“Are you okay?” he asks Hisoka. The magician sets down the tea on the table and shrugs smoothly.

“I have no problem with angry customers. Sooner or later karma will get them.” His hand flashes, pulling out a card: ace of spades. He makes it multiply into four, then disappears them all. 

“What’s so special about that tea, anyway?” asks Gon, looking curiously at the tin. It looks no different than the ones out in the main shop, its label just as faded and a dent in one side. 

Hisoka smiles. “It’s a special blend. It’s made from a rare species of hibiscus found only in Madagascar, and produces a very unique colour and flavour. The tea is blood red, the taste subtle but unforgettable – although quite bitter at first blush, it can become a habit.”

“Huh. 200 dollars for an ounce is pretty pricey!”

“Indeed. Aren’t you glad I didn’t offer you any?”

Gon grins. “You wouldn’t trick me for money,” he says easily, slipping his arms behind his head and stretching his shoulders. Hisoka raises an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“Nah. Other stuff maybe, but not money. I don’t think it means anything to you.” 

“Interesting.” Hisoka sways around the table, his hand lowered so that his nails scratch over its surface as he comes around to Gon’s side. He comes right up to Gon, reaching out and running a hand through Gon’s hair. “What _does_ hold meaning for me?” 

“You,” replies Gon, simply. “I’m not sure you really care about anything other than what you want.”

Hisoka blinks, face slackening in surprise. 

“Lots of people are like that. But you don’t pretend not to be. That’s rare.” He smiles and takes Hisoka’s free hand, twining their fingers together. 

“You say it like you don’t mind,” murmurs the magician, glancing slowly down at their hands. His expression is puzzled. 

“Well, I don’t think I can change it. And honestly, I don’t know that I’d want someone who only cared about me. I’m kinda selfish too. I need someone who looks after themselves.”

Hisoka’s smile is sudden and strong as a spring gale, both fierce and refreshing. “Oh, I _do_ like that,” he hums, leaning in. “I like it _very_ much.”

And he picks out his gum with two fingers and kisses Gon, all sugar and seduction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But I mean, what _does_ Hisoka do with the lemon squeeze?


	6. Showman

The Western Judo Finals are coming up, a meet between the west-coast university judo teams in March that provides seeds for the Nationals in April. 

Although he’s only in first year, Gon’s already one of the strongest members of the UCLA team and will be competing in the Finals. He invites Killua to come watch, as well as Kurapika, his favourite professor. With a background in kendo Kurapika understands the competing pressures of school work and his place on the judo team and has been supporting him through it. 

And, he invites Hisoka. They’ve never done anything remotely date-like, but Gon doesn’t think coming out to see him try to fight his opponents into submission counts as romantic. Although with Hisoka it probably does. He texts him the date and time, asking if he wants to come. 

Hisoka replies a few minutes later: _Okay~_ ★^-^💧

Gon smiles and tucks away his phone, then looks back to his GIS program.

  
***

He delivers Hisoka’s ticket in person the day before the match, the afternoon hot and sunny and already dry with the dusty thirst of summer. Flowers in flowerboxes are wilting; stray cats are lying in the shade, sleeping through the heat. Hisoka is sitting with a paper fan patterned with stars, reading the program for tomorrow’s match. He fans himself idly while flipping through the pages, expression unreadable.

He looks up when Gon comes in, shutting the program and lifting his long legs down off the table. “Shouldn’t you be practicing?”

“Coach wants us to make sure we get enough rest,” replies Gon, crossing over to him. He produces the ticket from his pocket and holds it out. “Here!”

Hisoka takes it, glancing down at the glossy paper. “Did you seat me with your friend?” he asks, eyes shining darkly.

“That seemed like a bad idea. You’re alone, but it’s a good seat! Really near the floor.”

“Hm.” Hisoka’s pouting. “And here I was hoping we would get to know each other better.”

“I think it would be better if the fighting stayed in the arena,” replies Gon. 

“You don’t think I know how to restrain myself?”

Gon looks down at him; Hisoka is smiling sharp as a sword, his nails (green today) shining. “Not when you’re having fun,” he replies. “And it’s not fun to Killua. So I think you two should sit apart. I’ll make it up to you,” he adds.

Hisoka’s brow arches upwards. “Oh? How, pray tell?” he leans forwards, elbows on the table and jaw cupped in his palms, his nails framing his face. 

“I’ll come home with you. When you want. When you’re ready. And you can have me the way you want to.”

Hisoka’s eyes narrow, thrilled. “My. And what do you imagine I want?” he purrs.

“I think you want control. You want to dominate. And I think you’ll want it even more once you see what I can do tomorrow,” he answers honestly. 

“Indeed?” asks the magician. But his lips are moist, his eyes hungry. 

Gon nods. “Yeah.” 

Hisoka kicks back, leaving the ticket on the table. “Very well. I won’t sulk. But you’ve raised my expectations; I do hope you can maintain them.”

“I can,” says Gon with confidence.

  
***

This year the matches are at Pauley Pavilion on UCLA’s campus, making it a home turf competition. There are teams from all up and down the seaboard, the audience full of cheering squads and fans. There are five rings set up in a row to allow a quick through-put of matches.

Gon and Zushi, his strongest rival among the UCLA first-years, finish getting ready and step out onto the floor of the arena together. Figures in white judogi are everywhere, examining the posted brackets, watching the first contestants stretch and warm-up, shouting to friends and fans. Gon spots Killua and Kurapika in the seats on the east side of the building; the two smile and wave. Hisoka’s nowhere in evidence on the west side of the building, but Gon’s first match doesn’t start for another hour. He did well in the pre-matches and has started off with a good seed. 

Gon takes a seat with the rest of the UCLA team and watches Zushi take on his first opponent – although in the second lightest weight class Zushi has excellent technique and can throw with the pros. The audience cheers as he uses a _koshi-waza_ to toss an opponent to the mats. 

Gon’s first opponent today is from the University of Washington. He’s short and sturdy with peering eyes and rounded shoulders: Gido. Gon watches him strut around on the far side of the rings; he has a strange habit of placing one foot directly in front of the other and balancing that way, like a marsh bird. 

Zushi advances to his next match and Gon starts warming up, doing floor stretches and carefully limbering up his shoulders and neck to be ready to fall. He spots Hisoka suddenly; the magician is sitting in his seat now, today wearing white with lilac highlights. He catches Gon watching him and gives a little wave; Gon beams back. He’s sitting back in his chair, golden eyes taking in the wide arena, although Gon can feel them continuing to return to him, watching him steadily. It makes his heart throb. 

His match against Gido is called and Gon steps up onto the mats, his entire team cheering him on from the sidelines. But right now he has eyes only for his opponent, is watching Gido’s every move, waiting for an opportunity. The ref calls for the match to begin and they both move; there is very little wasted time in judo. 

Gon’s lighter than Gido but he’s also stronger; as they clash with a wrestling technique he can feel Gido losing ground to him. The larger man tries to toss him and misses his footing; Gon slams forward and throws him to the mat, earning a lesser throw. Gido gets up, glaring, and wipes the sweat off his face. Gon stands steady, breathing slowly, ready. 

The second rush comes, but he’s got Gido’s number now: his footing is weak. Gon grabs the side of his gi and tosses him again, this time earning an _ippon_. He’s won the match.

The audience cheers and he waves while Gido slinks off. Killua and Kurapika are cheering, all smiles. Gon turns to see Hisoka’s smile: small, but proud. 

He has to fist his hands so tight his fingers dig into his fists to keep from grinning like an idiot.

  
***

He continues to advance through the day and fights a number of other opponents. Two more from University of Washington – a tall lanky man named Sadaso, and a short one with shadowed eyes named Riehlvelt. He beats them both and advances to the semi-finals against Zushi.

It’s a hard match. Zushi has great technique – probably better than Gon’s. But Gon has strength and determination and a kind of wild-cat energy that allows him to turn the tables in his favour. After nearly fifteen minutes of hard work he finally pins Zushi to the mat and holds him there until 20 seconds have ticked by, both of them struggling for dominance. 

Zushi is forced to surrender the match and Gon takes it humbly with a smile, both bowing to the other. There will be plenty of other matches; one day Zushi will beat him and will be the one smiling humbly. 

The final is against a stoic-faced third year called Meruem. Gon’s been watching him cut right through his opponents all tournament. He’s strong, the kind of strength that attracts not just admiration but fear. Gon’s fists are aching to fight him. 

It’s the end of the day by the time the final match comes around, Meruem versus Gon. He risks a glance at Hisoka and sees the magician watching him with hard eyes and in that instant knows: he will lose. Hisoka can see it just as clearly as he does.

He enters the ring with steadfast power, and is beaten down immediately by the whirlwind that is Meruem. He moves like lightning, ripping in and grabbing Gon’s shoulder and tossing him to the ground with strength that crushes the air out of Gon’s lungs. Gon’s up again in an instant but he’s already surrendered a point. The second toss is just as unavoidable; it’s like trying to catch the wind in his hands. This time there’s even greater momentum and he stays down for long enough to earn Meruem the match point. 

The other man doesn’t smile as he takes his bow, simply looks straight ahead and then returns to his team from Oregon. Gon looks after him, astounded and eager already to try again. 

There’s a brief ceremony at which Gon is awarded a medal and Meruem collects the trophy. Hisoka doesn’t stay for it, his seat empty when Gon glances over. 

He texts Killua that he’s going out for a while and will see him back at the dorm. He takes his time showering and changing, packing his judogi away in his bag and pulling on a tank top and light jacket, his medal still hanging around his neck. He wants to show it to Hisoka, wants to see the magician’s reaction to the show he put on. He didn’t win, but to come in second in his weight class is hopefully still impressive. 

Gon hoists his bag onto his back and heads out. The sun is low on the horizon, most of the light blocked off by the urban sprawl that is LA, all sky scrapers and motorways and apartment buildings. He doesn’t mind; the shade makes it a little cooler, and even after his shower he’s still running hot from the competition. 

He’s about ten minutes away from _Harlequin_ when he hears someone calling him. Gon turns and sees Gido and Sadaso, the pair looking almost like a comedy duo: one tall and lanky, the other short and chunky. They’re in the mouth of the alley he’s just entered, the dark walls covered with graffiti, shadowed doorsteps looming like pockets of pure blackness. 

“Hey Gon,” calls Gido, his boots scuffing on the gritty alley floor. “Congrats on your victory.”

“Yes, very impressive,” says Sadaso, his eyes just narrow slits, his weak mouth wobbling in a smile. Gon smiles back. 

“Gee, thanks. You guys gave it your all. Maybe we’ll compete again next –”

From behind him he hears the sound of footsteps. He starts to turn, surprised, and feels something bite into the back of his neck. 

Then everything goes black.


	7. Enchanter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings reminder: dubcon, pain play, rough sex. Also unsafe sex, because Hisoka.

Pain.

Gon wakes – _boot in side_ – to the feeling – _blood in mouth_ – of a beating. His body – _foot on hand_ – is heavy, unwieldly – _ripping hair_ – and all he can do – _kick to hip_ – is roll with the blows. 

“Not so smug now, are you?” crows Gido. “Mr,” _kick_ “Silver,” _kick_ “Medal?” _kick._

Gon groans. He’s curled up into a ball instinctively; the three of them seem to have no issue showering blows on his unprotected legs and back. 

“I think we’ll be taking this,” sneers Riehlvelt, and a moment later Gon feels something yanked over his head. His medal. He tries to look up but his vision is blurred by sweat and blood and pain, and all he can make out is the three shadows of his attackers. “To the deserving go the spoils.” He laughs, spinning the medal around his finger; the silver glints dully in the alley’s poor light. 

“Now what?” asks Sadaso, sounding bored with the violence. 

“Dinner and drinks,” replies Riehlvelt. “We’ve earned it!”

He kicks Gon solidly in the spine, Gon’s head snapping back in agony, and then the three of them are simply gone. As though this was nothing, meant nothing, cost them nothing. As though Gon were simply an ant to be stepped on. 

Gon lies on the cold cement for several minutes, trying to think. His brain feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton wool, is all fuzzy and indistinct. His body when he tries to move is sluggish. Slowly he crawls to his hands and knees, then makes it over to the wall and pulls himself up. Everything hurts, from his hair to his feet. There’s blood in his mouth and on his face; the back of his neck burns. 

He staggers down the alley and out into the street, sticking close to the wall and hobbling along like a zombie, moving more by instinct than thought. He follows the path ingrained in his mind, drags his exhausted, bruised body inch by inch through the side streets and byways. 

He makes it to a familiar alley, passes a tarot card reader, a barber. Sees the battered wooden sign, in better shape than him hanging above his head. _Harlequin_. He puts a heavy hand on the knob and turns it. Takes one step inwards, stumbles and falls. The unforgiving floorboards catch him. 

Footsteps. Black heeled boots beside his head. Pale, warm hands against his face, his throat. Dextrous fingers pull open his jacket and push up his tank top, sweeping over his chest and stomach. Then they press into a bruise and Gon gasps, jerking up. 

A familiar voice says something in a low, throbbing tone, but he can’t interpret the words. A thumb grazes his split lip, while far above gold dances like sunlight reflected on water. 

“Hisoka,” whispers Gon, as the world fades away.

  
***

He comes to in a dingy room on a canvas cot. _Harlequin_ ’s back room. He blinks up at the ceiling for a few moments, vaguely aware that he’s been stripped of his jacket and shirt. The air is cool against his naked chest, his skin mottled with red swelling from the blows.

Hisoka has brought a chair over and is sitting beside him, a basin of water in his lap. He’s dabbing a damp cloth at the blood on Gon’s face; it’s smeared across his cheek and running down his chin like juice from an overripe peach. Only the peach was his lip, bit clean through.

“Wha’ happened?” His head feels a bit clearer, his body slightly more responsive. 

“Someone tased you.” Hisoka presses his finger to the burning mark on the back of Gon’s neck; he winces. “Then, obviously, they creamed you.” He sounds very matter-of-fact about it. 

Gon remembers slowly; the violence breaks through the fog first, the feeling of boots raining down, of blows pummelling him. Then, like the ocean pulling away from the beach revealing sparkling sand, he remembers Gido, Sadaso, and Riehlvelt. 

“Right,” he says, closing his eyes. And then: “My medal!” His hand snaps upwards, reaching for it, but there’s only bare skin. It’s gone. “Aww. I wanted to show it to you.”

Above, Hisoka blinks. “Is that really all that concerns you right now?”

“Well, no. I’m pissed off, of course. They got the jump on me! And now I’m all beat up and everything hurts, and you probably think I’m a moron.”

Hisoka’s lips glint as they curl upwards. “Surely not,” he says. “Anyone can be taken by surprise by an unexpected assailant. Especially when distracted by pride.”

Gon frowns. “I was proud – I thought you’d be too! And now…” he sighs. 

Hisoka puts the basin on the floor beside him and looks down. His eyes are glinting hungrily. “And now, I seem to recall a promise,” he purrs, reaching out to brush his thumb over the cut on Gon’s forehead. He sweeps the pad of his thumb across the still-bloody cut and raises it to his mouth, licking it. 

Gon stares up at him. “You mean… you want to take me home? _Now?_ ”

“You’re so raw, so tender. A perfectly ripe fruit waiting to be plucked.”

Gon feels himself blushing, feels his skin growing hot, his heart racing. “Wouldn’t you rather wait until I’m good ‘n strong?”

“Whatever I wanted whenever I wanted, was the promise I believe,” replies Hisoka, voice husky. “Isn’t that right, Gon?” and he leans down and plants a kiss full on Gon’s bloody mouth. It hurts, bright sparks of pain bursting behind his eyes. 

When Hisoka rises his lips are red, his eyes gleaming. “Well?” 

Gon takes in a pained breath. There isn’t a chance of refusal – he _did_ promise. 

“Okay,” he says.

  
***

Hisoka has to help him out of the shop, Gon’s arm slung over his wide shoulders, Hisoka’s warm side pressed tight against his. Their hips rub as they walk, Gon taking slow, shuffling steps and Hisoka matching his pace.

The magician has a Kawasaki Ninja parked on the street, and while Gon had perhaps been expecting something in hot pink, it’s a surprisingly generic black. There is, of course, no helmet. Hisoka mounts it and pulls Gon on pillion behind him, Gon slipping his arms around Hisoka’s narrow waist. 

“You’ll want to hold on tight,” murmurs the magician, and then he’s revving the motorcycle’s engine.

Even through rush-hour traffic in LA Hisoka manages to make excellent time – this is mostly due to the fact that he drives like a maniac, cutting between cars and lanes, taking advantage of the smallest slices of free road. Gon, dizzy and sick, puts his head against Hisoka’s back and closes his eyes, focusing solely on holding on. Although the weather is warm with the wind from the speed it’s cool, and he finds himself pressing his body up against Hisoka’s broad heat. 

After what seems ages but is actually probably more like 15 minutes, they arrive. Hisoka pulls the motorcycle into a surface parking lot and kills the engine, and Gon opens his eyes again. They’re beside a non-descript modern apartment building, tall palms waving in the air from a stretch of greenspace between the parking lot and the building. Hisoka dismounts and Gon staggers off behind him, his body feeling wrecked. He feels winded without having exerted himself, feels dizzy. He puts one foot in front of the other, catches his toe on his heel, and stumbles.

Hisoka reaches out and catches him by the elbow, his fingers closing over a forming bruise. Gon yelps and tumbles right into him; Hisoka takes his weight with ease, arm tightening around Gon’s tense waist. “Should I carry you?” he wonders, glancing down. Gon looks up at him for an instant, sees an eager hunger in those gold eyes. He straightens, the last shreds of his pride stinging.

“I can walk.”

They cross to the lobby and take the elevator up to the top floor. Hisoka has a corner unit overlooking the parking lot. They enter into the open living room/kitchen and Gon can see that it’s sparsely decorated, just brand-new couch that looks like it’s never been sat on, a table and chair and a coffee table. The kitchen is new and shining. 

Gon stares down at his boots; the idea of bending or sitting to take them off sets off every ache in his body. To his surprise Hisoka kneels beside him, undoing the laces and loosening them until he pulls them off Gon’s feet like a butler might, Gon leaning on his sturdy shoulder. His movements are careful and sure, the smoothness with which he slips the boots off Gon’s feet a surprisingly sexy. Then, before he can say anything, Hisoka has picked him up as he threatened to before and is carrying him through to the bedroom.

The bed sits in place of pride in the centre of the room overtop a sea-blue carpet; the furniture is dark, ominous in colour, the walls plain white and unadorned. Hisoka throws Gon down onto the low bed, heedless of his injuries; Gon hits the mattress and feels like he’s been tossed onto concrete, everything aching. 

Hisoka kicks off his boots onto the plush carpet and drops onto all fours above Gon, pinning his wrists to the mattress. Then he’s kissing him fiercely, savagely, licking and sucking at his split lip and moaning into Gon’s mouth. Gon breaks away for a breath and he turns Gon to the side so he can work his lips down his jaw to his neck, laving the taser burn with his tongue. His hands are unzipping Gon’s jacket and pushing it off, then rucking his shirt up and skating over the taut reddened skin of his chest. Individual bruises show like footsteps in cement, the tread patterns of his aggressors beginning to blossom to life. As Gon pants he runs his mouth over the bruises, tasting each with his tongue, lapping at them. His touch is wet and warm, and alongside the pain something thicker and sweeter starts to churn in Gon’s stomach. Hisoka’s hand drifts lower, thumb sliding over the buckle of his pants, and then with a wicked smile he presses down on Gon’s crotch, his palm fitting perfectly against the swell of Gon’s prick. 

Pleasure mixes with pain, arousal with ache, and his hips roll upwards. Hisoka’s licking at a nipple, his teeth playing tenderly with it and then, when Gon moans, they tighten and his bliss spikes to a sharp-edged hurt. Hisoka strokes his palm down over Gon’s cock and renews the surge of desire, manipulating Gon between pleasure and pain just as cleanly as he navigated his bike through the clogged streets of LA. It mixes unevenly within him, Gon’s hands fisting in the covers as he struggles for equilibrium. 

“Mmm. You look so good, Gon,” moans Hisoka. “So delicious.” His long pink tongue runs over the ridge of Gon’s ribs, even the light pressure enough to make his bruises ache. Gon pants, eyes tightening, and Hisoka hums to himself. “Oh, I want it. I want it all.”

His hands undo the buckle of Gon’s belt and push his pants down, revealing the tight grey cotton of his boxer-briefs. The bulge from his hardening cock is unmistakable.

Gon’s never gone this far before. Has never been treated like this – his body worshipped, not just for ecstasy but for agony. The magician slips his hand inside Gon’s underwear, his palm against Gon’s naked skin, and he twitches as though electrocuted. A strong swell of rough-edged need pours through him, sudden as a sea squall. “Hisoka…” 

Hisoka looks up from where he’s bent to lick Gon’s abdomen, his eyes hazy with lust. “You’ve never done this before, have you Gon?”

“You know –” he gasps as Hisoka runs his teeth over a raised bruise, “– know I haven’t.” He rolls his head back against the pillow – Hisoka’s pillow, smelling of the magician’s musk and subtle aftershave. “Nnh!” he moans as Hisoka strokes his hand down the rapidly firming length of Gon’s cock. 

“I will enjoy this,” says Hisoka, leaning his chin against a bruise just above Gon’s belly button. The sharp pressure causes him to gasp even as Hisoka pulls his underwear off, leaving him naked on the bed. Hisoka looks down, mouth curled in pleasure. “Very nice,” he purrs. “Do you like touching yourself, Gon? Making yourself hard? Pumping your cock until you come?”

Gon blushes. “Hisoka, that’s…”

“Hmm?” the magician looks at him like he’s discussing nothing more sensitive than the weather and maybe this is what sex is, a complete lack of inhibition, of shame. 

“I guess,” whispers Gon. 

Hisoka leans forward and catches him under the arms, pulling him up; his entire body protests, his legs folding beneath him as he rises reluctantly to sit on the bed. Hisoka takes hold of his wrist and raises it to Gon’s mouth, pushing the fingers in. He tastes of dirt and blood, hard, brazen flavours lacking in sweetness or subtlety. 

“Then I’ll teach you a new way to enjoy yourself. Lick. Nice and wet now.”

Gon sucks at his fingers, a vague awareness of what’s about to happen building in the back of his mind. 

“Very good. Now.” Hisoka takes his wrist and guides his hand down and back, past his back, his tailbone, the curve of his ass. “In they go,” he hums. Gon shifts his weight, spreading his legs, and slips his fingers into the cleft of his ass. He’s never done this before, has only seen it in some of the porn Killua watches late at night with his earphones in when he thinks Gon is sleeping. His index finger finds the ring of muscle and pushes in even as his face burns, his eyes firmly on the bedspread. 

Hisoka is watching him do this, watching him touch himself in this bizarre, this filthy way. Watching as Gon slides his finger in and out, feeling tightness and pressure and warmth. It doesn’t feel good – at best, it feels different. Not bad, but he doesn’t feel any pleasure. Contorting like this with one hand twisted so tightly behind his back is awkward, his shoulder and side starting to ache already, bruises flaring. 

On the bed beside him, Hisoka is methodically stripping. His outer shirt, his undershirt, his loose pants. His underwear is tight over the bulge of his dick – Gon glances at it, then looks away, embarrassed. 

“Now, now,” says Hisoka, voice throbbing. “Don’t you want to see?”

So he looks back as Hisoka uses his thumbs to roll his briefs down. His prick is long and swollen, not as big as the ones Gon’s seen in Killua’s porn but bigger than his. His curling pubic hair is a more natural red than his hair, thick and gingery. 

“Do you like it?” asks the magician, eyes rounded in expectation. 

“I don’t know,” answers Gon, honestly. He’s never seen another man’s aroused member, and while he’s imagined things, to suddenly be presented with this reality is more than a little shocking. “I guess – it’s big?”

Hisoka throws his head back and laughs. “You would make a cat laugh,” he says. And then, crowding in to draw a nail down across Gon’s cheek, “But it is big. So you’d better put another finger in.” 

It hadn’t occurred to Gon that he might want to. He’s grown accustomed to one, the strange sense of it, and so he uncurls his middle finger and pushes it in too. Two is harder than one was, feels more foreign. Gon bends to his task, back aching, side aflame. Hisoka stands and steps off the bed, coming around to stand beside him so that his hips are just under Gon’s field of vision. “Time for something new,” he says, and reaches out to catch Gon’s chin. His fingers slip into the hollows of Gon’s mouth and force his mouth open. With his other hand he raises his cock, fat and flushed. Gon stares at it. “Taste,” he purrs, and pulls Gon forward to take his cock into his mouth. 

It tastes sharp and unpleasant, of salt and something harsher. Hisoka pushes his hips forward, thrusting it deeper into his mouth, his tongue sliding awkwardly down its length. Hisoka hums, then reaches down and presses a finger into a darkening bruise over Gon’s collarbone. Gon jerks, his fingers stiffening inside himself, his tongue freezing on Hisoka’s cock. 

“Don’t stop,” murmurs the magician, rubbing circles into the bruise, the pain distracting from the awkwardness of his fingers. “More tongue,” he adds and Gon licks down the shaft and over the head. He leans forward, long arms extended, and digs the pads of his fingers into Gon’s ass, pulling it apart. His fingers sink in deeper, brushing something that throbs under the pressure and he takes a sharp breath. “Oh? Do you like that?” Hisoka digs his nails in just hard enough to sting, kneading at the firm flesh of Gon’s ass. Gon feels something warming low in his gut and sinks his fingers in more deeply, adding a third. If he presses up far enough, twists his hand just right… ecstasy. He moans, sucking wetly on Hisoka. 

“Since it’s your first time,” says Hisoka, “I’ll give you something nice.” He pulls Gon away from his hips and then tugs at his arm; Gon’s fingers slip out of his entrance and Hisoka tosses him onto the bed ass-upwards. A moment later hot hands are holding his hips, pressed into the pain points from sharp kicks to the bone. Gon whimpers and shifts but Hisoka holds him firm. An instant later something warm and wet is pressing against his entrance, hot breath warming his cheeks. 

As Gon blushes and squirms Hisoka licks into his ass, his tongue slicking against the ring of muscle and pushing inside. It’s hot and embarrassing and shameful and delightful, a mess of sticky feelings all wrapped up in one smothering package, and Gon’s moaning, face buried in the blanket. “ _Hisoka_ …”

“Hmm?” The magician presses his thumbs into the bruises and Gon’s hips try to pull away even as Hisoka holds them steady, tongue swirling inside him, exquisite agony and ecstasy rolled into one. 

“ _Please_ , Hisoka,” he pants, not even sure what he’s begging for, just that he needs a change, needs something else, something both more and less before he shakes himself apart. 

Hisoka pulls his tongue back and Gon feels the mattress curve as the magician kneels on it behind him. “Mmm, _Gon_. I. Want. You,” he whispers, leaning down over Gon’s back, his breath hot over the curve of Gon’s ear. His nail drags down the nape of Gon’s neck and over the knob of his spine. 

Then, without warning, he’s shoving his slick cock into Gon’s ass. It’s tight and hard and stinging – close to pain. Gon rocks forward, gasping, and Hisoka makes a low pleased sound. 

_This_ , Gon thinks hazily, _is sex_. This intimacy, this hunger, this acute awareness of the other person. Hisoka pairs it with pain, as always, his roving hands scratching open cuts and pressing on bruises, his prick slamming home into the entrance he just finished slicking. Gon’s body is aching but even through that he can feel the needy throb of his cock. He props himself on his stronger arm and reaches back with his left, taking his dick in hand. 

Like the sun rising above the horizon to replace night with day, Gon feels pleasure flood him to the exclusion of pain. Hisoka’s rutting into him is no longer hard and awkward but suddenly fills a need in him, pouring ecstasy through his shaking body. His own cock feels like an extension of Hisoka’s, his strokes in time with the magician’s, their bodies becoming one. He never realised it could feel like this, that his body could be so hungry for another, that he could feel both so empty and so full. 

Hisoka’s driving into him hard and after only a few minutes of touching himself he already feels like he’s teetering on the edge of orgasm. He wants to last longer, wants to be what Hisoka wants – what he _expects_ – but his body is on fire and he can’t hold out much longer. 

“So tight. So hungry,” purrs Hisoka, pulling Gon up suddenly from all fours to fuck up into him. The angle changes something inside Gon, changes it to something marvellous, and he shouts and twists and slams his hips back against Hisoka as his body begs for more. He’s losing control - has lost control – and all that matters is the shattering feeling of Hisoka’s cock rutting into him. 

“P-please,” he moans, needy, broken, and Hisoka laughs. 

“You _do_ like it, don’t you?” 

He bites Gon’s ear, all teeth and sharpness, and Gon comes. The orgasm erupts out of him, ruining him, tearing him asunder and leaving him empty. 

And then there’s just Hisoka, still pounding into him. His ass is suddenly sensitive, uncomfortable, and he tries to shift away but Hisoka holds him steady. “Now it’s my turn,” he whispers. He drops Gon back onto his hands and knees and pounds him, Gon raw and pained and exhausted, ready and willing for this to be over.

Hisoka comes a few minutes later, pumping his seed into Gon’s ass with a happy moan. He withdrawls slowly, releasing Gon, and Gon drops onto the bed, too tired and hurt to think of anything but the healing embrace of sleep, slick and sticky though he is.

The back of his mind hears Hisoka going to the bathroom and washing, then padding back in and lifting Gon, moving him to one side of the bed and sitting down on the other. 

“Now, Gon,” purrs Hisoka, reaching down to turn his face upwards. He blinks against the light, eyes heavy, tired. Hisoka smiles down at him, bright and predatory. “Would you like some hibiscus tea?”


	8. Conjuror

“Would you like some hibiscus tea?”

Exhausted, hurt, and spent, Gon looks up at Hisoka. There’s a playfulness to the magician’s tone but it lies over something much sharper, like velvet draped over a blade. Gon frowns. “What?”

Hisoka’s long finger brushes over the curve of his ear, the claw-like nail feathering through Gon’s sweat-dampened hair. “Mm,” he breathes, leaning in as though to smell Gon, as though anticipating something sweet. “Hibiscus tea. You were quite curious about it, weren’t you?”

Gon’s mind is working in fits and starts, his thoughts grinding together like badly-timed gears. “But… you said it’s expensive. Hundreds of dollars.”

“I think you’ve earned a pass. And all you have to do,” he begins, expression darkening, eyes sharpening, “is tell me _who hurt you_.”

Goosebumps rise on Gon’s naked skin, his body flinching back instinctively. Hisoka is still smiling, sitting on the bed beside him. But he’s no longer amused. He’s angry. 

“Why?” asks Gon, fingers curling inwards and forming fists. 

“That’s how it works. Just like anything in this life. Pay something, get something.”

“You said you’d give me a pass,” points out Gon. He rolls onto his side, his muscles burning briefly, and stares up at Hisoka. At his beautiful face, the delicacy of his lashes and the pinkness of his lips. At the mayhem dancing in his eyes. “It’s not really tea you’re selling, is it?”

Hisoka’s eyebrows rise. “Oh? You’ve bought it from me. I even think you enjoyed it.”

“No – I mean – the real thing you’re selling. The thing those people bought from you in the back room. There’s no scale back there, no till. You’re not selling them tea.” He’s been aware of it for a while now, of course. Ever since he finally saw the mysterious back room. But… he likes Hisoka. Likes him in an entirely new way that is both exhilarating and agonizing, his heart pioneering an unsteady course for him. And he’s afraid, because he can still remember Killua’s words: _he’s obviously up to his neck in mob affairs, and that means sex or drugs or violence._

Gon doesn’t think it’s sex or drugs. But violence… that’s easy to imagine. 

“Is this really how you want to have this conversation?” asks Hisoka, straightening. “Naked and stuffed with my cum?”

Gon flushes, looking up at him. “Have a bath,” proposes the magician with apparent generosity. “Clean up. Then we can talk.” He stands, pointing at the adjacent bathroom, then pads out of the room. Gon stares after him for a few seconds, but he doesn’t come back.

Slowly, sluggishly, body all aches and stuttering pain he rolls off the bed and staggers over to the bathroom. Slick wetness is seeping out of him, down the insides of his legs; it’s awkward, embarrassing. He cleans it up with toilet paper while he runs the bath, touch careful against what feels like bad bruising. The bathroom is stark white tile accented with black, a harlequin pattern. There’s a straight razor and a toothbrush in a metal cup on the edge of the sink, beside a cracked bar of soap. 

He’s just finished cleaning himself when his legs give out abruptly and he falls to his knees on the plain white bath mat, grabbing the side of the tub for stability. 

Gon stares at his reflection in the rippling water. All he can make out is dark hair and dull chocolate eyes. 

He’s afraid things are going to get complicated. Gon’s not good with complicated. One of the reasons he likes Hisoka is because, at his heart, he is simple. His lies, his deceptions, his games are all based solely on one need: to keep himself amused. It’s not that he’s cruel or kind, any more than the sea can be cruel or kind. Gon’s known for some time now that Hisoka’s missing a fundamental part of himself, the part that translates action onto a moral scale. Hisoka doesn’t see the difference between a pet and a punch, only knows that they will elicit different reactions. 

The tub finishes filling and he turns off the taps and hauls himself in. He’s kept the water warm but not too hot; really for bruising he should be using an ice bath but right now he wants the comfort of heat. He lies back in the warm water and stares up at the utilitarian showerhead above. 

Hisoka isn’t like Killua. Killua did terrible things because he was raised to, because his family made him. But in a way he’s worse than Hisoka because he knows the difference between right and wrong, and he did wrong for a very long time. Hisoka doesn’t know the difference, and he continues to hurt people – of that, Gon’s sure. 

Gon’s never done anything more terrible than draining the last of the milk and replacing the carton in the fridge, but he thinks he understands Hisoka better than he does Killua. He’s often felt himself to be missing something too. When he looks at other people he can see the way they project an image of themselves all the time, a sort of puppet that they imagine receiving compliments or insults and use to project the impact of their decisions on others. A puppet that they use to run through simulations until they decide on the best course of actions. It happens in the blink of an eye, but it happens all the same. 

Gon doesn’t do that. He simply acts. He doesn’t consider options, doesn’t know how to step back and think about the possibilities and which one is best. He’s missing the part of himself that winds itself into knots trying to make the best decision possible. As a result he’s a lot freer, but he’s also made a lot of selfish decisions. 

He wonders now whether his relationship with Hisoka is a selfish decision. But then, it’s no one’s business but his, right?

Gon picks up a bar of rough seaweed soap he finds in the tray and washes himself. Cleans off the blood and the dirt and the spit and spunk, washes himself inside and out until he’s sore and shining. His bruises are starting to darken from red to black, as though tiny needles are hard at work injecting ink under his skin. 

When he’s done he stands a pulls a fluffy white towel off the rack – this too smells like Hisoka, and he’s conscious as he dries himself off that he’s spreading the magician’s scent over his body. 

Outside he picks up his clothes and pulls them back on; Hisoka’s clothes are still littering the floor, so either he’s found another outfit or he’s still naked. Gon’s mind paints a quick picture of the magician sprawled on his spotless couch with nothing on, early evening sunlight pouring in through the window. It makes his heart quicken. 

He pads through to the other room and finds Hisoka – dressed in a peach-coloured outfit with deep red highlights – standing looking out the floor-to-ceiling window. He has a pack of cards in his hands, is shuffling them from hand to hand. Gon can see his reflection in the glass, his expression austere, difficult to read. 

“Nice and clean?” he asks, without looking over. 

Gon pads to the long beige sofa and sits down carefully on the low armrest, bare feet against the hardwood floor. His ass hurts, at the moment more than the rest of him. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Good.” He turns and leans up against the window, one knee raised and his heel resting against the glass. “Now. What were you saying about my real business?”

“You haven’t really been hiding it. You take commissions to – what? Hurt people? Kill them?”

Hisoka smiles slickly. In his hands the cards shuffle with a sound like wings flapping. “Hm, a little of both,” he replies. “Does that shock you?”

Gon shakes his head slowly. “Uh-uh. I’ve known you were dangerous since I met you. Other people like money, fancy cars, nice clothes. You like hurting people. And I think you’re good at it.”

“ _Very_ good,” purrs Hisoka. “It’s almost funny, you know. For such an innocent, you’ve surrounded yourself with murderers. Me, Killua darling – what a family he has! His brother is a friend of mine you know. And then there’s your handsome blond professor. I was surprised to see him cheering you on. He’s been to see me before looking for information, but he prefers it to be his finger on the trigger. Gang violence is so tragic, isn’t it?”

Gon blinks. “Kurapika?” The Geomorphology professor has always seemed so calm, so in control. Maybe that control is what allows him to do whatever he’s done.

“Something about a murdered family. To be frank, I didn’t really listen.” Hisoka fans the cards out, picks one out and slots it back in upside-down, the white face contrasting harshly with the patterned backs. Then he closes the fan with a sharp gesture. When he opens it again all the cards are now face-up. He looks up, his expressive mouth carved in a wry grin. “You’re very quiet, Gon. All your friends, this pretty world you’ve built up for yourself, all blood-soaked. Do you regret my touch?” He stretches out a pale hand, his painted nails coloured crimson in the setting sun. 

Gon tilts his head to the side. “I feel sorry for Killua – he’s not any different than a dog that’s trained to bite; the things he’s done aren’t his really fault. And Kurapika… well, I don’t know, but I can’t believe he would ever hurt someone who didn’t deserve it.”

“And me?” purrs Hisoka.

“You’re like me. We both act without thinking – we do what we want, when we want. You would never kill someone with a bomb, or a sniper rifle. You live for the challenge – I bet you don’t even take targets who you think are boring. People too old or weak to protect themselves.”

“Does that make it right?” asks Hisoka, his smile like a shark’s. Gon can see what he’s doing – he’s fishing for inconsistencies, is looking to make Gon doubt, make him regret. But he doesn’t. 

Gon stands slowly, his movements shaky. Hisoka watches him as he crosses the floor, the magician’s eyes unreadable. 

Gon stops a foot from Hisoka, looking up at him. “You asked for the names of the people who beat me up. Why?”

“Oh Gon. You know why,” replies the magician, but his smile is wary now.

“Because you want to hurt them. For what they did to me. When was the last time you were driven to act by something other than curiosity or hunger?”

Hisoka blinks. “You suggest that I want revenge? Because I care for you?” He reaches out and catches Gon’s jaw in a rough grip, nails pricking harshly into his throat. Gon doesn’t move, holding his gaze. “I don’t care for people, Gon. That’s not who I am.”

“Then why do you want to hurt them?” His voice is calm, his gaze serene. 

“Because right now, you are _mine_ ,” whispers Hisoka harshly in his ear, golden eyes only inches away. “And I don’t allow others to damage my property. That’s my prerogative.”

Gon puts his hand gently over Hisoka’s, an ugly bruise forming on the back of it just below his knuckles. “Is that really so different?” he asks, fingers curling around Hisoka’s palm. The magician’s hand is warm, his skin smooth. 

Hisoka can’t own him – he’s not a piece of property. But he doesn’t mind if that’s what his lover thinks, if that’s what makes him happy. Gon will freely give himself to Hisoka, if it means he gets his passionate attention in return. 

“You feel possession is the same as love?” Hisoka releases his fingers, perplexed. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never been in love. But I know I don’t want to share you with anyone else – that I’d fight to keep you. Isn’t that possessive?”

“Love is commitment and sacrifice and … and _gladness_ ,” says Hisoka, as though the words are foreign to him, as though trying to describe a creature he’s never seen. He flicks his hand disdainfully. “I believe in none of those things.”

Gon reaches up and, for the first time, delicately touches Hisoka’s face. His cheek is silken, the painted teardrop almost a part of him. “When I see you, I feel glad,” he says.

“Then you’re a fool,” replies Hisoka, but his usual certainty is absent. “Sooner or later I will tire of you, or I will kill you. This closeness is brief as a firework, Gon, about to burst.”

“Then let’s enjoy it while we can. I don’t need forever. But, for now I think, I do need you.”

Slowly, like blood welling up in a cut, Hisoka smiles. “You want me? Then tell me,” he purrs, catching Gon’s hand and presses his thumb into the bruise on the back of it. “Who. Did. This?”

“I can fight my own battles,” replies Gon. 

“What will you do? Will you hunt them down and take your revenge? Will you follow them home and show them terror in the place where they feel most secure?”

“I’ll defeat them in the ring,” replies Gon.

Hisoka sighs. “Then they will simply do the same again afterwards. This is not a problem to be solved with rules and convention. This is what revenge is for.”

“If I tell you, will you kill them?”

“Are you bargaining for their lives?” asks Hisoka, amused. “They could easily have crippled or killed you.”

“I want to fight them again. I want them to see that I’m stronger, that they can’t beat me without stupid tricks. If you kill them, I can’t do that. That’s my revenge, and I deserve it!”

Hisoka’s eyes narrow in pleasure. “Very well,” he concedes, releasing Gon’s hand and spreading his arms in a show of defeat. “I will not kill them.”

“Promise?”

His smile is like moonlight on dark water, mysterious, transient. “Promise,” he replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember kids, don't follow Gon's example. Possession =/= love.


	9. Charmer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting early in honour of Hisoka's birthday. Happy 6/6!

Hisoka has some tins of soup in the cupboards of his surprisingly spotless kitchen; he points Gon to them. “Make yourself something. I’ll be home late,” he says, swiping the keys to his motorcycle from the counter, the names of Gon’s attackers already memorized.

“You want me to stay?”

Hisoka glances at him. “I didn’t make myself clear? You are _mine_. I want to find you in bed when I get back, all nice and tucked in.”

Gon’s mind flickers back to the bed, to the things they did in it. His body isn’t ready for more; he just wants to eat, then sleep. Maybe if he’s asleep when Hisoka gets back, the magician will let him rest. He just nods. Then Hisoka’s gone, and he’s alone in the apartment. 

He finds tins of broth and chicken rice; after his matches he knows he needs protein despite the grim ache from his pummelled guts. He goes through the cupboards until he finds a pot – one of a set, all of which look brand new – and empties the can of chicken rice into it. He sets it to heat on the stove, then looks around more slowly.

There’s a TV mounted in the wall that’s shared with the bedroom at a right-angle to the couch, and a remote on the glass-topped coffee table. There’s no art on the walls, no pictures or paintings or trinkets that suggest anything of Hisoka’s personality. Gon supposes the sparseness is in and of itself an indication. Hisoka may play with any number of toys, but little catches his attention for long. 

_Sooner or later I will tire of you, or I will kill you_. The magician’s words come back to him as he stares up at the dark TV screen, his reflection small and two-dimensional in the glass. Gon’s always lived for the moment; threats of future actions don’t worry him. He can move on from loss, and he knows how to defend himself.

Still, the idea of a life without Hisoka in it makes him sad – surprisingly so. In five short months the magician has become a part of him, someone he instinctively considers when making plans, someone he wants to be with. Losing him would leave a hole that he hadn’t known was there until they met. 

The soup starts bubbling; Gon returns to the kitchen and finds a bowl to pour it into. He takes it over to the table and sits in the single chair, slowly spooning chunks of chicken and grains of swollen rice into his mouth. It’s salty and rich, much tastier than Hisoka’s cock had been. But as he swallows the warm liquid he’s suddenly reminded of their love making – if it could be called that – of Hisoka’s touch, his scent, the violence of his possession and the urgent need Gon had felt to beg for it.

It hadn’t been anything like he had imagined losing his virginity would be before he met Hisoka. Hadn’t been soft kisses and tenderness, hadn’t featured longing or romance. Hisoka is all sharp edges, taking pleasure in cutting others. And yet now that he’s had him, felt him take everything Gon had to offer and more, it’s all he can imagine. He wants to be better, wants to be stronger next time. Wants to press back against Hisoka and force the magician to give up something in return. Wants to be the one who makes Hisoka feel the way he did earlier tonight. 

Full and tired, Gon rinses his bowl out and puts it in the sink, then shuffles back into the bedroom. The bedspread is still mussed from their earlier activities. He has no idea which side Hisoka prefers to sleep on so he simply peels off his jacket and pants, crawls in on the closer one, and closes his eyes.

He’s asleep in seconds.

  
***

_Bzzt, bzzt, bzzt._

Gon wakes not knowing when it is or where he is. His body is heavy and warm with sleep – no, heavier. When he tries to move to stop the vibrating against his hip his reaction is slow, sluggish. He rolls over and a myriad of aches remind him of what he had momentarily forgotten: the violence wrought upon him.

It’s dark, just a faint light filtering in through the un-curtained windows. “Are you going to get that?” asks a familiar voice from beside him. 

Gon looks over and sees Hisoka in bed next to him, sitting with his back against the headboard. He’s painted in tones of blue and grey, his naked chest the colour of ash in the darkness. His hair is down, his face unpainted. On his chest, something is glinting in the moonlight. 

Hisoka’s. He’s at Hisoka’s apartment, because he got the shit kicked out of him. Hisoka had left to find his attackers, but now he’s back and – _bzzt!_

Gon reaches down and pulls his phone out of his pocket, thumbing on the call. “Hello?”

“ _GON!_ ” It’s Killua, all volume and reverb. “Do you _know_ what time it is? _Where are you?_ ”

Gon blinks up at Hisoka. “What time is it?”

“Hmm, just past midnight.”

“Are you with that clown freak? Please tell me you’re not.”

“I got in a bit of trouble after the match. Hisoka helped me out,” admits Gon. Even if he doesn’t see Killua until tomorrow his bruises won’t even be fully set then, with weeks to go until they yellow and fade. There’s no hiding this from his roommate. 

“What kind of trouble?” Killua sounds suspicious, worried.

“It’s all fine now,” says Gon. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was staying out. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Do you want me to come pick you up? I can – I’d be there in –”

“Killua. It’s fine. I’m safe here.”

“Gon…”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay?”

There’s a long pause. And then, irritably: “Fine. But I expect full details of whatever this trouble was.”

“Bye, Killua!” He hangs up without agreeing, even though he knows eventually Killua will get it out of him. He reaches down and puts his phone on the floor, then squirms around on the mattress until he’s looking back up at Hisoka. “Sorry; were you sleeping?”

“No. I was listening to you breathe in the moonlight. If I listen close, I can hear every ache, every pain. It’s _rapturous_ ,” he says, deep and throaty. 

Gon blinks. “Oh. Well, thanks for not waking me up.” He cants his head to one side. “You’re back; does that mean you found them?”

“Oh, there was never any doubt about that.”

“You didn’t kill them, did you?” asks Gon.

“I did promise,” replies Hisoka. “And only a few broken bones. Really, I was _quite_ restrained. Will you thank me?”

“How?”

Hisoka’s leg slips over to hook over his, his thigh pressed against Gon’s groin. He’s not wearing any clothes under the blankets, either. 

Arousal wars with soreness, with the deep bruising ache in his entrance. If he lets Hisoka have his way, he won’t be able to walk tomorrow, and Killua won’t forgive the magician – ever. So…

“Can I do it with my mouth?” he asks. His lip is split and painful, but it’s nowhere near as bad. And he thinks Hisoka likes the blood. 

“Hmm. Do you think you can keep me amused?”

“I’ll try,” he says earnestly.

“Mm, such a good boy.” Hisoka pulls himself up higher and pushes away the covers, the long silvery length of his body exposed to the starlight. Gon feels more in control now than he did before, feels like he can take his time to appreciate Hisoka’s strong, muscular form. He shuffles over to perch on Hisoka’s thighs, his prick only inches from the magician’s, and leans in to kiss him. They’re wet, coppery kisses, Hisoka biting against his lip until blood wells up and then licking it away. His hands work their way down Gon’s back, headed for his ass, but Gon pulls away first. 

“No – this time I want to lead,” he says. Hisoka blinks. 

“Oh? One fucking under your belt and you think you’re ready?”

“Mm-hmm.” He licks his lips and leans in, pressing his mouth to Hisoka’s throat. He’s never touched him here before, never imagined that the magician would let him so close to his vital area. But as he licks and sucks Hisoka tilts back his head, granting him access; he presses his teeth into pale skin, marking him. Hisoka’s not the only one who can leave bruises. 

He works his way down the magician’s chest, sucking at the hollow of his throat and running his tongue along the dimpled curve of his collar-bone. Tastes the sweat over Hisoka’s pec, and then fastens his mouth over his nipple, licking and nipping with his teeth. Hisoka lets out a shivery moan. 

Gon lets his hands explore ahead of his mouth, lets them run down Hisoka’s firm, toned flanks until they come to the jut of his hips, bone hidden beneath rounded flesh. Gon buries his fingers there, splayed back into Hisoka’s ass, feels the depth of malleable fat and pulls at it the way Hisoka had kneaded at his own cheeks. His mouth marks a line down the centre of the chiseled abs, feeling the taut muscle as Hisoka inhales and exhales. Even holding still he is intensely alive, the whole of him vivid, magnificent, like lightning made manifest. He’s being surprisingly pliant, as though whatever violence he delivered earlier in the evening drained some of his pent-up need. 

Gon’s mouth reaches his navel, the indent there a strange reminder of the mother Hisoka must have had, of the child he had surely once been. Gon can’t imagine either. Then he’s shuffling back, making space as he lowers himself to meet Hisoka’s cock. 

It’s still mainly flaccid, only partially aroused by Gon’s kisses and touches. He strokes his thumbs along the rise of Hisoka’s hipbones as he bobs to lick the fat tip of his prick. Hisoka spreads his thighs, opening himself to Gon, and Gon feels his heart thrumming in his chest. Then Hisoka rolls his hips, shoving his cock forward into Gon’s mouth. 

“Mmph!” Gon glares up at him; Hisoka smiles. 

“I simply couldn’t resist,” he purrs. “Go on then. Suck me dry.”

Gon’s doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he thinks maybe the point of this is to learn. He slides the thick surface of his tongue over the smooth head, the tip slipping down under Hisoka’s foreskin to nestle into the tightness there; Hisoka moans pleasantly. He pulls his tongue up and explores the slit, sneaking it open as far as he can and licking shallowly into it. Precome floods the surface of his tongue, salty with a musky, almost oniony taste. He’s already more used to it than he was at first, is ready for the sharpness of the flavour. He keeps licking.

Hisoka’s head is tilting back against the wall, his eyes heavy-lidded. He brings his hands down and runs his fingers through Gon’s hair, softly at first and then harder as Gon starts to suck, his hands fisting and pulling at the roots. Gon keeps his mouth wet, liberally coating Hisoka’s cock with his saliva, painting it over his dick in hungry laps of his tongue. But he’s still inches from the base, his mouth already full. He takes his hand from the magician’s ass and grabs the base of his cock as tight as he dares, stroking it. 

“Mmm,” hums Hisoka, hips twitching. Gon moves his mouth and his hand in time with each other, using his palm to roll over Hisoka’s balls; Hisoka groans. “If you take all of me in your mouth, I’ll give you a nice treat,” he says huskily, eyes shining in the dim light. 

Gon swallows warily; his mouth already feels full, his jaw at an awkward angle to keep his teeth back. But he decided he wanted to show Hisoka he’s just as strong as the magician; if he wants more, Gon will give it. He goes down, down, down, licking and sucking until there’s no room in his mouth to move his tongue, until his nose is buried in Hisoka’s thatch, until he starts to gag from the feel of Hisoka’s cock rutting against the back of his throat. He lifts and bobs, eyes intense and locked on Hisoka’s navel, mouth watering because he can’t swallow. 

“Look at me,” orders Hisoka. Gon looks up, meets those golden eyes, spit leaking around his lips as he keeps licking and sucking. “Mm, nice eyes.” He releases his hold on Gon’s hair and tucks a finger under his chin, pulling him up. Gon’s mouth slides up his cock, and then it’s falling past his wet lips to bounce on Hisoka’s stomach. “Take off your briefs,” says the magician, and Gon does.

His own cock, almost forgotten while his concentration was entirely focused on pleasuring Hisoka, is half-hard and eager for attention. Hisoka pushes a hand against his chest, tipping him over into the bed. “Lie down,” he purrs. Then, as Gon watches, he crawls down so that his face is even with Gon’s flushed dick, and his own spit-soaked member is hanging above Gon. He straddles Gon’s face and lowers his hips even as he dips his head, red hair falling in a curtain over his face, and takes Gon’s cock into his mouth. Something cold and metallic slides against Gon’a stomach, hanging from Hisoka’s neck; he ignores it. 

Gon gasps as his tongue swirls over the head, swollen and sensitive. Hisoka’s mouth is hot and wet and soft, his tongue skilled and strong as it worships Gon’s cock. Pleasure floods his body beginning in a warm wave from his groin and making his body tingle. “ _Oh_ ,” he pants, shocked, amazed that this can feel so good. Then Hisoka’s thrusting his hips and he remembers his part in this, tilts his head back and takes Hisoka’s cock back into his mouth.

There’s something incredibly erotic about sucking off Hisoka while the magician does the same for him, their tongues vying with each other for supremacy, dominance. Gon’s breathing hard through his nose, his body thrumming with arousal, with heady pleasure and pounding waves of ecstasy. Having his dick sucked by Hisoka was great – doing it in tandem is amazing. Hisoka deep-throats him without apparent effort, his lips pressed against Gon’s root, his fingers kneading Gon’s ass once more. Gon shudders, eyes closed, and nearly chokes when Hisoka thrusts into him. 

Hisoka’s thrusting more as Gon focuses on pleasuring the head of his cock and using his fist to pump the base, his tongue sliding slickly over every inch of sensitive skin. He lifts his free hand and catches Hisoka’s balls – sometimes when Gon gets himself off he likes that pressure, that illicit touch – and Hisoka moans and digs his nails into Gon’s ass. Gon does it again, using his palm to rub them while his tongue plays with Hisoka’s slit. 

A moment later, without warning, his mouth is filled with thick, spurting fluid; he chokes and pulls away, cum leaking out his mouth and down his chin. Hisoka makes a pleased noise and runs his teeth lightly over Gon’s dick, his touch playful, teasing. 

“Hisoka,” coughs Gon, rubbing the hot liquid away with the back of his hand. Hisoka doesn’t stop, keeps licking and sucking. He uses his lips to put pressure on Gon’s dick, sliding them up and down. “Oh, Hisoka, please…” He holds Hisoka’s hips, eyes half-closed. A wave of ecstasy is building in him, flooding him, drowning him. He’s nothing but arousal, his entire world contained in one tiny bead of concentration: Hisoka’s mouth on his dick. His hips start twitching, hungry for more. Hisoka reaches out and catches the insides of his thighs, pulling his legs open, exposing him to the world. He’s so close, so close, _so close…_

Hisoka catches his balls in his hand and squeezes. 

Gon shouts and comes, the bubble of intensity bursting. 

Mouth beside his cock, Hisoka laughs.

  
***

When Gon wakes up the next morning, Hisoka is gone, the sunlight streaming in through the uncurtained window revealing an empty bed.

On his chest, heavy and warm, is his silver medal.


	10. Illusionist

When Gon tries to get up he realises immediately that he’s forgotten the cardinal rule of body blows: it always hurts more the morning after.

Pulling himself up takes three attempts, his movements thrown off by pain and swelling and stiffness. His joints have partially locked up, his muscles spasming as he tries to press them into service. 

When he finally does make it to his feet and drags himself into the bathroom, he’s a little shocked by what he sees in the mirror. His whole body is patterned by dark black boot treads, here and there the shape of a rounded toe or a heel, while in some spots the entire imprint of the boot is clear. His torso took the majority of the blows but his arms and legs weren’t spared, are still dusted with bruises. His face at least was mostly spared, except for his split lip and a cut over his left eye. Gon stares at his reflection and sighs. There’s no way he can hide this. He’s not even sure he can get back to campus on the bus if he has to stand. 

He looks down at the sparse sink: a metal cup holding a straight razor and toothbrush, a bar of milk soap. They provide no answers. 

He showers again – slowly, carefully – to wash off the smells of last night, the remaining stickiness. Towelling off is agony, the pressure of the fluffy towel lashing against his tender bruises feeling more like concrete than soft cotton. He replaces the towel and meanders through the bedroom, picking up his clothes and pulling them on. At least they hide the bruises. 

Gon makes his way out into the main room and finds a note on the kitchen counter beside an orange. _Gone to work. Stay as long as you like. Don’t worry about locking the door behind you._ It’s signed with a scribbled clown’s face. Gon takes the orange and the note over to the table and sinks into the chair, butt protesting; he peels the orange and slowly eats the juicy flesh. The tart tang helps to wake him up. 

He looks down at the note beside the tidy pile of orange peel. It’s written in a clean, slanted cursive, the kind of style the girls in his high school had spent time practicing in their notebooks, the margins filled with hearts and stars. His mind supplies a brief image of Hisoka standing at the kitchen counter scrawling it, already in his make-up and heels. 

Now that he’s spent the night in Hisoka’s home – in his bed, even – Gon thinks he should have a better understanding of the magician. And in some ways he does. He would never have predicted before that Hisoka would care enough for him to want vengeance; whatever he may say about possession being his motivation, Hisoka’s not old-fashioned and he doesn’t believe in honour or grand-standing. He had no reason to fight for Gon. But he did. It makes Gon’s heart speed, hot blood pounding through his veins. 

He smiles down at the clown face on the note. 

After popping the last piece of orange into his mouth, Gon pulls out his phone. Using Google maps he sees that he’s about a half-hour away from campus by bus. He stares down at the screen. At this time of day the bus will be packed with people going to work and students on their way to school. He doesn’t think he can handle standing for that long as the bus bumps along, crammed in among a sweaty crowd. He considers his bank account, perennially stretched thin. But right now, there should be enough for an Uber back to campus. 

Gon calls for a ride, then tosses the orange peels and heads over to the door. His boots are waiting for him there, just where Hisoka left them. He pulls them on and then stares down dubiously at his bag; with his heavy gi, extra clothes and water bottle, it’s a not insignificant weight. He pulls it over his shoulder and yelps as it swings into his bruised hip. He settles for carrying it in his hands instead.

By the time he gets downstairs the Uber is waiting. He gets into the back and sinks into the seat, too exhausted to chitchat. 

On his ride here he had seen almost none of the neighbourhood, his face pressed tight against Hisoka’s warm back. Now he sees that it’s relatively affluent and residential, less sketchy than _Harlequin_ ’s surroundings. They drive down green streets before merging onto the motorway, heading towards UCLA. 

Gon’s leaning back against the headrest with his eyes closed by the time they get there. The car isn’t an expensive one and its shocks are shot; every pot-hole, every manhole or rumble strip they drive over rattles him painfully. It’s only when the driver announces “We’re here,” that Gon opens his eyes and recognizes the entrance to campus closest to his dorm.

He gets out, hauling his bag behind him, and starts staggering towards his dorm. He feels like he’s been wrapped in Kevlar, his body heavy and unwieldly. He has to stop twice on the short walk to rest, arms wrapped around his aching stomach. When he finally does arrive at his building and swipes his pass to unlock the front door he remembers the three flights of stairs up to his floor and groans.

Finally, finally he makes it past the fire door and into his hall, down the long stretch to his door. Then the key’s in the door and he’s inside – he can finally collapse on the bed and just not move for the foreseeable future, or at least until Killua gets back, and –

“ _GON!_ ”

Killua rips across the room from his desk, a book falling to thump on the wooden surface behind him. Gon stares at him, shocked – Killua should be in class now. “Where have you _been?_ It’s past ten you bastard, I’ve been waiting for you all morning!” Killua grabs him in a headlock and shoves him back playfully into the door. 

They’ve always been physical with each other, each well aware that the other can take it. But now stars explode behind Gon’s eyes as he slams into the door, pain crushing him like a steam roller. He drops his bag and his legs give out from under him, falling to the floor as a high, keening moan escapes his lips. 

“Gon!” Killua’s kneeling beside him, his blue eyes the colour of the summer sky, warm and kind and caring. He reaches out and pushes up the bottom of Gon’s jacket, revealing his mottled skin. 

“It’s okay,” begins Gon, smiling painfully and catching Killua’s hand, moving it away from his jacket. Killua looks up at him. He leans in and rests his hands lightly on Gon’s shoulders, looking him in the eye.

“This isn’t okay. This is the _farthest fucking thing_ from okay. Gon – did Hisoka do this? You’ve gotta tell me, if he did –” Killua’s eyes are no longer warm but suddenly hard, sharp as flint. 

“No! No.” Gon shakes his head. “I told you; he helped me.” 

“He helped you.” Killua’s tone could be the dictionary definition of skeptical. “Really.”

“Really,” agrees Gon. “He took me home and looked after me.”

Killua gives him a hard look, but moves on. “Okay. If it wasn’t him, then what _did_ happen?”

“Some of the guys I beat in the Finals jumped me. I guess one of them had a taser. It’s all kinda blurry. They just beat me up and left. And they took my medal. But Hisoka got it back.” He reaches down and pulls it out from under his jacket. 

“Hisoka got it back,” parrots Killua. “Why? _How?_ ”

“Well…” Gon tilts his head back against the door. “He wanted to. He asked me to tell him who did it, and I did. And he got it back.”

“Just like that?”

“More or less.”

“Look Gon –”

Gon straightens, looking him in the eye. “Killua, Hisoka has secrets. Like you. You’ve both got a lot of darkness in you, but I still care for both of you. I don’t want to lose either of you. If that’s not enough… it just has to be enough. Okay?”

Killua stares at him, eyes wide and surprised. Then, slowly, he sighs, deflating. “Alright; I won’t push. But I _do_ want to know which bastards did this.”

Gon shrugs. “The Washington State guys. Gido, Sadaso, and Riehlvelt. I could’ve taken them if they’d fought fair." 

“Those fucking cowards.” Killua’s jaw tenses, teeth grinding. 

“It’s all taken care of, okay? Let’s just forget it. I’ll fight them in the ring next year, and show them I can win fair and square.”

“Yeah.” Killua sighs. “Yeah. You’re right. C’mon, you’d better lie down. I’ll get you some ice. And hey, d’you want some pain meds?”

Gon blinks. “Do you have some?” he asks slowly, as Killua pulls him carefully to his feet, shoulder under his armpit.

“This is a college campus, Gon. Uppers, downers, crack or meth or smack – there’s nothing I can’t get.” Killua’s smile has a hint of cruelty to it; unlike Hisoka, it doesn’t look good on him.

Gon shakes his head. “Nuh-uh. I’ll just rest. I heal fast; you’ll see.”

“I hope so, ‘cause you’ll be sitting finals soon. Although you could probably get a sick note if you wanted to.” Killua puts him down on the side of his bed and he rolls over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. 

“Nah; I’ll be fine.”

He wonders vaguely what Hisoka’s doing right now. If he’s at the tea shop, reading his paper or doing his nails. He suddenly wants to text him, tell him he’s back on campus and okay and thank him for last night. Do people thank other people for having sex with them? Is that weird?

“Did you have breakfast? I could run out to the store,” says Killua, breaking into his thoughts.

“No; I’m good. I think I just want to sleep.” All his body wants is to lie still and recuperate. 

“Okay. I’ll go out; I’ve already missed Anatomy this morning.”

“Thanks for waiting for me, Killua.” Gon smiles up at him; Killua blushes.

“It’s nothing.” He turns and hurries back to his side of the room to grab his stuff. 

Gon texts Hisoka to tell him he’s back in his room and doing okay – no thank yous – then sets down his phone and closes his eyes. As Killua closes and locks the door behind him, he falls asleep.

  
***

It’s sometime later when he hears the door slam; the overhead light turns on, glaring down at him. Gon groans and rolls over, throwing his arm over his eyes.

“Gon, wake up.”

He buries his head into his pillow. “Nnh.”

“ _Gon!_ ” Killua’s beside him, shaking him. He blinks slowly into wakefulness, staring up at his roommate. It’s dark outside, the sky black outside his window; he’s slept all day. 

“Wha?”

Killua’s got his phone in his hand. “I just checked the news. There’s an article about three students from Washington U. It doesn’t have names or pictures, but it says they were in town for a sports competition.”

“So?”

Killua looks down at him, expression hard. “So, it says all three were seriously injured. No more details, but I asked around. The rumours say they were _castrated_ , Gon.”

Gon looks up at him, the gears of his mind churning. On his desk beside his bed, his phone buzzes. He picks it up and sees he’s missed several texts from Hisoka. 

_Why don’t I come over to see you this evening?_

_Leaving the shop now._

_I’m almost there, Gon~_

Gon looks up. Killua’s looking down at him expectantly. “So,” he begins, slowly. “About Hisoka…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to prepare everyone, we're coming up on the end of this fic. Not least because I'm running out of synonyms for magician. :D


	11. Trickster

Gon’s not subtle, or eloquent, or quick-witted when it comes to thinking before he speaks. He forces himself to slow down now, to try to plan out his words. But it all comes down to the same thing: Hisoka kills people for fun – and money. 

“About Hisoka,” prompts Killua, after a few moments of silence.

“He kind of…” _bzzt!_ Gon glances down at his phone.

_At your door. Knock knock._ ★^-^💧

“Um. Hisoka’s here. I’ll just go –” he starts to get up and abruptly finds that he just can’t. His body betrays him utterly, staying stubbornly recumbent. He blinks, shocked. This has never happened to him before. 

Killua’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean, he’s here?”

Gon’s mind hops tracks and he tries to focus on Killua’s concern over his traitorous body. “He decided to come over. I guess to check on me.” Gon flashes the phone screen at Killua. “Can you go down and let him in?”

“I don’t want him here.”

“Please, Killua?”

“Gon, he just fucking _castrated_ three people and you want to _invite him in?_ He’s a maniac!”

“I could’ve died,” says Gon, softly. “They could’ve easily tased me or kicked me to death. If I hadn’t woken up, maybe they would’ve. Hisoka was _mad_.”

“That doesn’t excuse –”

“Killua,” says Gon, looking up at him. “Let’s not talk about excuses for doing the wrong thing. Will you let him in? Please?”

Killua stares down at him, face angry and pinched. Finally he turns away on his heel, crossing his arms. “Fine. But this is just beginning.”

He slams out of the room leaving Gon alone on the bed. He rolls onto his side, then slowly pulls himself into a sitting position. His bed is mercifully placed against the dorm room’s cinderblock wall; he leans his back against the cold surface and closes his eyes, breathing deep and slow. 

Slowly images of Hisoka flood into his mind: the magician above him, eyes rounded in pleasure as Gon sucks him off, his expression soft and ecstatic; Hisoka pulling him up into a kiss that spreads blood onto his lips, crushing Gon’s bruised lips against his mouth; Hisoka’s hand squeezing his balls, the pleasure/pain thrusting him over the edge of his climax. 

Hisoka came home and made love to him after castrating the men who hurt him. He was hungry, lustful, eager for pleasure. Not one whit remorseful.

But if he were, he wouldn’t be Hisoka. 

“I don’t _care_ ,” snarls Killua’s voice from the hallway, and then he’s throwing the door open. Gon looks over, curious, and Killua storms in followed by Hisoka. The magician is smiling as if privy to a secret, his eyes shining, a small white paper bag in his hand. He stops just inside the door and looks around – at the two beds and the two desks and the two dressers. And the two boys, Gon on his bed and Killua standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed angrily. 

“What a charming room,” purrs Hisoka. “The two of you share just about everything. Hm, Killua?”

Killua glares at him. 

“I was just telling your handsome roommate that I was blessed with your company last night. Of course, my humble abode boasts only one bed,” his smile sharpens; Killua’s face darkens. “But not to worry. I took very good care of Gon.” His voice is low, throbbing. Gon blushes. 

“Hisoka! What did you bring?” he asks, hoping to draw the magician’s attention elsewhere before Killua tries to strangle him. Hisoka blinks, glancing over at him.

“A little gift for you. After all, you earned it. Hibiscus tea. Enough for a pot for three,” he adds, golden eyes flashing to Killua. 

“Oh.” Gon’s eyes drop to the small bag. 

“Special is it?” asks Killua, still glaring.

“To die for,” assures Hisoka, smiling. 

“You –” begins Killua, voice cracking; Gon breaks in. His stomach is aching from tension, his shoulders full of pins and needles. 

“Look, you two. Stop trying to mess with each other, please. Hisoka, Killua is upset about what you did to those guys last night.”

Hisoka blinks archly. “I? Am I not permitted to exact some pain in return for my _dearest_ one?”

“You cut off their fucking balls,” snarls Killua. “That’s not romantic, it’s psycho.”

“I don’t seem to recall castration being on the menu,” replies Hisoka, putting a finger to his temples in a parody of deep thought. Then he blinks and smiles, a light going on. “But of course, I’m not the _only_ one with Gon’s interests at heart, am I?”

Killua pulls back. “You’re accusing _me?_ ”

“Love makes us do strange things. Especially when we’ve been raised by a den of professional murderers with a frankly crazed revenge ethic. How _is_ Illumi these days, Kil? Still looking out for you?”

Killua stares, eyes wide and dazed. 

“Of course, I’m sure Gon told you all about what happened when he came back this morning. You’ve had hours to find them; they certainly wouldn’t be moving quickly after last night. And then… _snip snip_.” He makes scissor motions with his hands. 

“You sick bastard, I wouldn’t –”

“You wouldn’t hurt someone for Gon? Wouldn’t _kill_ someone for him? He’s your only friend, your first friend. Your first is always special.” Hisoka reaches out to pull a clawed finger beneath Killua’s chin; Killua slaps his hand away, breathing hard. 

“He didn’t ask me to,” snarls Killua. “And I know he didn’t ask you to either. Gon wouldn’t do that.” He turns around, eyes wide. “Gon – I wouldn’t. I didn’t –”

“Hisoka,” says Gon simply, cutting through Killua’s pleading protests, “likes to lie.”

Hisoka glances at him. “You think I’m lying? Shouldn’t you believe the one you gave your heart to?”

“Your being a liar doesn’t stop me caring for you. But you shouldn’t tease Killua. He takes his family really seriously. So please tell the truth.”

The magician sighs, shrugging. “Very well. What do you want to know?”

“Did you castrate those bastards?” says Killua, voice thick with emotion.

“Well, anything else would have prevented them from competing in next year’s competition. And Gon specified that he wanted to fight them again.”

Killua stares. “You think they’re going to go back to judo after that?”

“Whether they do or not is their choice. They _could_ ,” says Hisoka, simply. “I’m not responsible for their dedication.”

“No, just chopping off their balls.”

Hisoka’s smile is predatory. “Let’s not pretend you haven’t done worse for less of a reason. And let’s not pretend that, given the chance, you wouldn’t do the same as I did. You tell the world you’re different now, Killua, but that’s not what I see in your eyes.”

Killua grits his teeth, eyes dark and narrow. “ _Very_ good,” purrs Hisoka. “Perhaps you’d like some tea now?”

“I don’t want your fucking tea,” snaps Killua. “And overnight visitors aren’t allowed in the dorm. So finish what you came for and go, or I’ll report you to our RA.”

“I would like to see that conversation,” says Hisoka; Gon privately disagrees – he likes their RA. The magician walks over to Gon’s desk and puts the tea down on it. “I’ll text you the brewing instructions,” he says to Gon. Then he bends down, one hand pressing into the mattress, and kisses Gon full on the mouth with teeth and tongue and a wet moan. 

Killua gives him the finger behind his back; Gon thinks he probably knows. 

Then he’s pulling away, licking his lips seductively. “Come back to see me soon, Gon,” he says. 

Gon nods. “I will.”

Hisoka’s eyes gleam. “Good. Bye bye, Killua,” he adds, waving. 

“Screw you,” says Killua, and kicks the door closed behind him. 

For a moment there’s silence. Then on Gon’s desk the bag of tea topples over with a soft _phut_ sound. “I definitely wouldn’t drink that,” says Killua.

“It costs hundreds of dollars,” says Gon. 

“It’s probably got, like, snake shit in it or something. Or just plain old weed killer.”

Gon shakes his head. “Uh uh. Hisoka’s serious about his tea. Besides, if he wanted to hurt someone he wouldn’t bother with poisoning them. He’d just –”

“Cut off their balls?” asks Killua. “Really Gon, I know you don’t want me to butt in, but –”

Gon looks at him and smiles. “Killua. Thank you.”

Killua stutters momentarily. “You’re thanking me?”

“You’re looking out for me. I know that. And Hisoka’s violent and dangerous; I know that too. But the three of us… we’re not normal. I like Hisoka – he’s beautiful and exciting and he makes me feel alive. I couldn’t like him if there wasn’t something a little off about me as well. And because I know you understand about being different, I want you to be okay with it. You’re my best friend, Killua – I’ll be sad otherwise.”

Killua sighs. “You’re a goddamn manipulative bastard, you know that?”

Gon grins. 

“Look; I won’t say I like him because I don’t. But so long as you keep your eyes wide open, I’ll keep my mouth wide shut, okay?”

“Thanks Killua!”

“Yeah, whatever. Don’t mention it.” Killua turns away, arms stretched behind his head and the corners of his mouth upturned. Gon smiles and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gon's MO is basically making bad decisions. Accurately reflected here.


	12. Harlequin Redux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning for semi-public sex, thanks Hisoka.

In the end, he takes the tea back to Hisoka. 

It’s a warm day in early April, exams looming next week and his body still bruised and sore although more responsive now. Gon marches down the streets with his little packet in hand, the air smoggy and the sky hazy.

The wind is swinging the _Harlequin_ sign above the door when he finally turns into the alleyway, the dusty front windows of the tarot card reader and the barber dark with shadow. Gon passes them by and turns into the tea shop.

Hisoka is sitting at the back of the store as always, reading the paper. He looks just like he did the first time Gon met him, all lanky grace and bored beauty. He’s flipping through the pages reading, Gon knows now, the personal ads. He wonders what the magician looks for in those sordid columns of text. 

Hisoka looks up, mouth curling into a smile tight as a fern frond. “Gon,” he purrs. “Aren’t you supposed to be studying?”

“I started to feel like my brain was going to melt and leak out of my ears. So I stopped. I’ll do some more after I go home tonight.”

“So dedicated,” observes Hisoka. He leans forward, elbows on the table and palms up cupping his chin. His long, magenta nails rest against his pale cheeks. “And so thoughtful, to come see me instead of spending time with charming Killua.”

“Killua’s my friend, and I like spending time with him. But you’re my lover, and I like spending time with you too.”

“Your lover?” Hisoka’s eyebrows raised. “Is that what I am?”

“Well aren’t you?”

“I don’t recall _love_ having anything to do with it. Although I certainly _am_ fond of you. As fond as I’ve ever been of anyone, I think.” He looks contemplative. 

“You said you didn’t want to date me. So I don’t think you can be my boyfriend. But you’re definitely not just a friend.”

“So precise,” hums Hisoka. “Do words really matter? We understand each other, isn’t that enough?”

Gon crosses over to the table and puts the tea down on it. He reaches out and gently takes Hisoka’s hand; the magician allows him to pull it up to press against his chest. Purple nails press into his shirt, pricking his skin. “Do you know what I’m feeling?” he asks. 

Hisoka looks up curiously. “No.”

Gon smiles, letting go of his hand. “So I have to tell you. That’s why words are important. And you have to tell me what you’re feeling too!”

“Hmm.” Hisoka withdraws his hand, fisting it and canting his head to the side to rest his jaw on it. “I’ve never been one for sharing feelings.”

“But you’d tell me if you wanted something. Wouldn’t you? You did before. In bed,” he says, holding Hisoka’s eyes but blushing softly. 

“I _excel_ at letting my desires be known,” he agrees. “And my intentions, too. Why don’t you put out the Closed sign, and I’ll tell you what it is I want.” His eyes are dancing now, like gold coins catching the sunlight.

Gon pads across the floor to the door and turns the faded Open sign to an equally pale Closed. Looking back he sees Hisoka smiling at him, his lips a pretty pale pink. Gon returns to him, rounding the table; Hisoka swivels on his chair to face him, legs partially spread. Gon sinks down onto them, seated on Hisoka’s thighs, and kisses him.

Hisoka presses back immediately, hard and coarse, all power and demand. Gon’s lips have healed since the week before and he fights for dominance, giving as good as he gets, until they’re both panting. Hisoka’s hands rove down Gon’s back to the seat of his pants, nails pricking through the canvas and the pads of his fingers digging into the flesh. Gon spreads his legs and rolls his hips forwards, rutting up against Hisoka. Hisoka gives a soft hiss of pleasure and he does it again, lowering his mouth to suck at the curve of the magician’s jaw. The material of Hisoka’s pants have more give than his and he can feel his hardening cock pressing up through them, feel his excitement. 

“You said you’d tell me what you want,” murmurs Gon, breaking away from the hickey he’s been sucking into Hisoka’s skin. 

“Mmm. I want to fuck you in my store. I want the memory of my prick in you, the smell of your sex, the sound of your desperate breaths. I want to have you right here, squirming and screaming for me. _And I will_ ,” he adds, pressing forward sharply to bite sharp teeth against the tender skin of Gon’s throat. Gon’s instincts to retreat war with his hunger for more, a chill running down his spine. He settles for driving his hips down hard, making Hisoka gasp and break his hold. 

“If you leave marks, how will I explain it to Killua?” he asks lightly, breathing speeding as he keeps grinding against Hisoka, pleasure mounting. 

“By telling him _exactly_ what happened. You are _mine_ ; I don’t want you to hide it.” Hisoka digs his fingers painfully into Gon’s ass, kneading his nails into it. 

Gon stands abruptly and sees Hisoka’s hooded eyes follow his move, his face dark and watchful. But Gon simply strips off his pants and underwear in full sight of the front windows and sits back down, his leaking prick leaving a wet mark against the front of Hisoka’s white cotton pants. 

Hisoka smiles and rolls his hips upwards. He works his hands down Gon’s chest, rubbing fingers and thumbs in fading bruises and sucking in radiant breaths when Gon shudders. Gon for his part sucks his fingers until they are dripping, then starts to ready his ass for Hisoka’s cock. 

It’s been more than a week since they did this the last time – the first time – and he’s already forgotten the awkward bend to reach all the way back, forgotten the strangeness of feeling his fingers inside himself. But it passes quickly, Hisoka sucking and then biting at his nipple while Gon thrusts his hips closer and closer to Hisoka’s. He kisses everything he can reach of the magician – his collar-bone, his sternum, his pec. 

Hisoka’s getting rougher, pulling and biting and clawing like a wild animal, and while Gon’s not really ready – only two fingers – he’s hungry for more. He stands again and this time Hisoka shimmies out of his pants and briefs, his thick cock swollen and flushed. 

“Aren’t you going to lick it? It will hurt otherwise,” purrs the magician, and so Gon drops to his knees just in time for Hisoka to shove it forward into his mouth, Gon gasping in surprise and then almost chocking with the salty sourness of it. But sucking Hisoka’s cock reminds him of what they did last time, of Hisoka’s mouth on his own prick, and he finds his eyes closing with enjoyment as he laps at the hot flesh. He reaches down and catches hold of himself, stroking his own dick in time with Hisoka’s hungry thrusts into his mouth. The pleasure calms his anxiousness, relaxes his muscles and readies him for more.

When Hisoka’s hard and leaking and slathered with saliva Gon stands, momentarily uncertain. But Hisoka pulls him down backwards, spreading his thighs as he sits. There’s an instant of hot wetness at his entrance and then the magician is pulling him down onto his cock. It’s too tight, his asshole not stretched enough, but Hisoka just moans and shoves in all the same as Gon groans. 

Pain blanks out the world momentarily; when it fades he can feel Hisoka’s hips bumping upwards, his nails digging into Gon’s sides. “Oh _Gon_ ,” he moans, ecstatic with the sensation, and Gon gives a slow exploratory rise and fall, feels his dick slide inside him.

Maybe it’s the position, or maybe it’s the fact that he’s not half-dead from a beating, but this time he feels closer to Hisoka. Feels the magician’s movements better, the thickness of his prick’s head rutting up into his passage. Arousal washes through him, thick and heady. 

“ _Move_ , Gon,” orders Hisoka, and he does. He uses his heels and thighs to rise and fall, his own prick bobbing against his thighs and stomach, his balls jumping tightly. The pain is burning off now, like mist under the sun, still present but farther from his immediate thoughts. All he can think is how intimate this feels, how strange and yet fulfilling it is to have Hisoka’s cock thrusting into him.

“Hisoka, you feel good,” he pants, head canting back to stare at the ceiling instead of the windows. He doesn’t care if anyone sees him being fucked by _Harlequin_ ’s owner, but he’s not sure he wants to see them watching either. 

“ _More_ ,” purrs Hisoka, so he starts moving faster, bouncing on his strong thighs, shoving Hisoka’s cock deeper into him. Bright, brief glimmers of bliss explode through him as the magician’s prick slides against an inner sensitive spot, his breath catching at each touch. Hisoka reaches around and grabs Gon’s prick, thumb trailing down to press against the base while his fingers encircle the hard flesh. 

“Ah – _aah!_ ” He’s moaning. And then Hisoka grips tightly and grinds his hand down, palm into his aching balls, just as Gon’s hips slam down and Gon is _screaming_ , pleasure/pain/ecstasy burning through him like flaming paraffin. 

“Again,” commands Hisoka, and this time he thrusts up in time with Gon’s slam, balls-deep into Gon and pounding his cock with a tight hand. Gon cries out, deep and throaty, and Hisoka moans orgasmically. 

Then he’s _standing_ , moving Gon with him with what must take incredible strength and focus; Gon’s feet hit the floor and he catches himself. A moment later Hisoka has him bent over the table and is rutting into him, banging his ass over and over. 

Gon can’t distinguish pleasure from pain anymore. All there is is intensity, so much need coursing through him. His fingers scrabble for purchase on the table, ripping Hisoka’s newspaper and knocking the tea to the floor. 

Hisoka bites his shoulder blade as he comes, humming through the orgasm. Gon strokes his own cock feverishly, on the edge and desperate for release; Hisoka gives one last keening thrust and he comes, half-laughing, half-panting. 

Gon looks up to see he’s spilt cum all over the table; his ass is full and sore, feels wet and awkward. Hisoka turns him around, pressing him up against the dirty table and lifting his chin to kiss him. For once, there’s no violence in this kiss, just eminent satisfaction. 

They break away, Hisoka looking down at the disaster that is his table. “Hmm. I can see I’ll be cleaning this afternoon.”

Gon blushes. “I’ll help. It’s my fault after all.” He squats down carefully, thighs sore from so much activity, and picks up the tea. “I brought this back. It didn’t seem right to take it. I know I agreed to you beating those guys up, but I did it for you, not for me. I can’t take this.” He puts it down on the table and recovers his pants.

Hisoka has pulled up his pants, tucking his damp, limp cock away. “You did it for me?”

“Well, you were really mad. And I think you had a right to be.” He pulls on his clothes, his underwear already starting to dampen with Hisoka’s cum. Still, he thinks dazedly, it was worth it.

“Weren’t _you_ mad?” asks the magician.

“I was mad at myself for getting jumped. And I think what they did was wrong. But I wouldn’t have punished them for it.”

Hisoka’s ingot-gold eyes glitter. “You keep me guessing, Gon. I like that.”

Gon smiles. “I’m glad. Maybe you could make me some other kind of tea instead. I’d like that, too.”

Hisoka spreads his arms, gesture inclusive of the dozens of tins of tea. “Which kind?”

Gon looks up at him steadily, eyes soft. “You choose. You know what I like.”

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming on this crazy journey everyone! Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
